Battlespace nomad, p.12
Battlespace Nomad, page 12
"You're pretty dense in the head, then," Ramirez scoffed playfully, her tone light and teasing. "The only reason I never quit was because I knew I would miss our next shower together if I did."
Jimmy was rendered speechless, and his hand paused mid-stroke across her back. She turned about, tired and haggard, but with shining eyes. For the first time, Jimmy saw Ramirez as more than a soldier. She was more than the tough soldier girl she projected to others, and Jimmy realized she was making herself vulnerable to him alone.
Why hadn't he seen it days before?
She gave him a longing look and moved in for the kiss.
"What took so long?" Captain Hawthorne grumbled when Jimmy finally emerged from the barracks. Jimmy wore civilian clothing and soft running shoes as he approached with his duffel.
"Sorry, sir," Jimmy said. "I was saying goodbye to a friend."
Hawthorne looked at the barracks and saw Ramirez in the doorway, wearing only a towel. He looked back to Jimmy with a blank expression and just shrugged. "Hell, I can't blame you."
Jimmy put his effects in the cargo area in the back of the M-37 before climbing in the passenger seat. Hawthorne climbed back in the driver's seat, seemingly impatient.
"You've already been transferred to Special Operations Command, so you won't have to return to your old unit again," Hawthorne added.
"That fast, sir?" Jimmy was in disbelief. "I never cleared my old installation before I left."
"That's the regular Army way of doing things, son," Hawthorne said flatly. "You're going to have to adjust to not being supervised like a toddler."
"Yes, sir!" Jimmy said.
"Boss," Hawthorne said. "On my team, my people call me ‘Boss.’"
"Yes, boss," Jimmy corrected himself.
They rode along in the M-37, letting the trees rush by as they went. Jimmy began nodding off immediately but kept snapping back to reality. He'd had no rest since his ordeal, and his stomach ached for sustenance. They approached the main part of the vast installation, Camp Jeffries, before turning into a parking lot. All the buildings were prefabricate0d, so they all looked the same regardless of their intended use. Only placards with building numbers differentiated them from each other.
"This is our temporary barracks and our orderly room for the 29th," Hawthorne said. "The team is off doing equipment maintenance, so you'll get to meet them on Monday."
Mindful it was Friday evening, Jimmy couldn't help but wonder what he was to do in the meantime. "Boss, what are my orders in the meantime?"
"Rest and recover," Hawthorne said decisively, as he powered down the M-37. The steady humming of the vehicle's systems wound down to nil as the car was silent. "I almost forgot."
Captain Hawthorne pulled a nano module from his cargo pocket. Without warning or permission, Hawthorne jabbed the module into Jimmy's arm. Jimmy flinched in response, but his ruined body suddenly felt some relief within seconds.
"Here, take the module," Hawthorne said, handing the device to Jimmy. "We also have an ice bath in the back of the orderly room. I recommend you use it."
Jimmy's head spun, but in a pleasant way. The injection certainly wasn't standard. "Boss, what was in that injection? I haven't felt this good since before selection started."
Hawthorne winked. "It's a cocktail that we operators use for rapid recovery. It has a combination of medical nanobots, anti-inflammatories, and pain meds. But it won't dull your senses like a narcotic would."
"Will it heal me completely?" Jimmy asked, with a single brow raised.
"Two injections per day for two days ought to fix you with proper hydration and rest. Your joints and ligaments may take longer to heal, but you'll be walking without a limp by the time you report for PT on Monday," Hawthorne explained.
"Thank you, sir," Jimmy said. But then he realized his mistake and urgently corrected himself. "I mean, Boss."
"Your room is already set for your neural interface. Just settle in, and I'll see you bright and early on Monday. PT starts at zero-six-thirty," Hawthorne said.
"Got it, Boss," Jimmy nodded, noticing the soreness in his neck was already dissipating. He trudged to the vehicle's tailgate to collect his bags, secured them, and walked toward the building.
Hawthorne drove away without another word, leaving Jimmy to his own devices. Jimmy pushed the main entrance door open and skulked down the hallway. He passed doors with numbers printed on them. Hawthorne never told him what room number he was in, but as long as his neural interface was tied into it already, then it didn't matter. He touched the keypads mounted on the side of each door until one flashed green. He pushed the door open to find a spacious individual room. It had a bed along the wall, a private latrine, and plenty of storage space. Jimmy stuffed his bag into one of the room's closets before turning about and walking out of the room.
When he re-emerged from the barracks building, the sun had gone down. His day had been long and brutal, so he had to fill his belly with something wholesome and warm. He accessed his personal data pad and found the nearest chow hall.
Dinner was pasta with a bolognaise with garlic bread and fresh garden salad. Jimmy scarfed it down like he hadn't eaten in a month. With his caloric deficit under control, Jimmy stumbled back to his barracks room, stripped down to his skivvies, and then rolled into the semi-comfortable government-issued bedding.
He injected himself once more before rolling over and letting sleep take over.
18
After a weekend of large, wholesome meals and copious rest – coupled with a few ice baths – Jimmy was ready for PT. With his standard Army fitness uniform donned, he walked out of the barracks and into the parking lot, where he was told to meet the others.
He was instantly self-conscious when he saw a group of people with athletic builds, a huge podge of civilian fitness outfits, and various non-military haircuts. Half of the men had some form of groomed facial hair, and one of the two women among them had more tattoos than most of the men.
"Well, look at the fresh meat!" a voice called out. Jimmy couldn't tell who said it but approached slowly, trying to maintain a confident gait.
"All right, people," Captain Hawthorne's voice cut through the early morning air. "Let's get this show on the road."
Jimmy saw the man wearing a matching jogging suit and white running shoes. Master Sergeant Best stood beside him, wearing shorts and a skin-tight shirt that showed his rippling stomach beneath the thin layer.
"James? Or do you go by Jimmy?" Hawthorne asked.
"Jimmy, Boss."
"Jimmy," Hawthorne repeated as if committing it to memory. "I should have told you we don't do the whole uniform thing unless it's a mission requirement."
"Understood, Boss," Jimmy replied with a nod.
Hawthorne directed his attention to the rest of the group. "All right, 29th, let's get warmed up."
One of the operators, the female with tattoos, directed everyone to gather in a circle around her. Jimmy joined in. The woman led the team in warm-up stretches and a few light calisthenics, but nothing that Jimmy would consider challenging. He followed along. The others cracked jokes, and there were giggles all around. Jimmy caught himself chuckling more than once, and things were looking positive. The routine was a mix of stretching, light exercises, and banter, creating a sense of camaraderie among the team.
"Boss, are we doing hand-to-hand combat before the run, or just standard strength training?" the woman that others called Kievskaya asked.
"Always hand-to-hand," Hawthorne replied. "We have a gym for weight training, after all."
"Sounds good, Boss," Kievskaya replied with a curt nod.
Jimmy was less amused. He'd done the standard hand-to-hand combat training courses the regular Army offered the common troops. Still, it was more of a general introduction than something he'd practiced on any meaningful level.
The circle migrated over to the patch of grass in front of the barracks, and two eager combatants came into the group's center, trading kicks and blows with amazing restraint and control, careful not to injure each other.
Unsurprisingly, the fight devolved into grappling. Jimmy watched wide-eyed as two muscle-bound titans rolled around, trying to outmaneuver each other skillfully.
One of the men got the upper hand and had the other in an arm bar.
"Come on, Boomer! Reverse this mess!" someone called out.
The man on the ground growled, but it was no use. He was thoroughly stuck in place.
"All right, the next two are up," Kievskaya said, her voice carrying the weight of authority.
The victor helped up the man they called Boomer, and the two teammates exchanged compliments before joining the others and wiping the grass clippings off their clothing. The two females, Kievskaya included, entered the ring and squared off. Both of them reminded Jimmy of Ramirez. They were as feminine as a woman could be with the bodies of world-class athletes.
Shouts and cheers erupted as the two women squared off.
"Try not to hurt me this time, chief," Kievskaya said. Jimmy surmised the other woman must have been a warrant officer and likely the second in command of the detachment.
"No promises, chica!" The chief winked, going in for a tackle and scooping Kievskaya's legs out from under her before dumping her on the ground in a heap.
"Ouch!" someone called out. Jimmy agreed. The maneuver looked painful, but was expertly executed.
The process continued until everyone except Jimmy and Captain Hawthorne had a turn.
"All right, FNG, you're up!" Kievskaya told Jimmy, beckoning him into the ring. She used the term Fucking New Guy (FNG) to denote his status as the newest teammate. In the military, this term is often used to refer to new recruits, and it carries a sense of both camaraderie and initiation. It was a common term, but after Jimmy's ordeal with selection, he thought he'd earned the right to bypass such indignation.
Ready or not, Jimmy stepped into the ring. Hawthorne squared off against him in a low crouch with outstretched hands. Jimmy had no clue what to do, so he merely mirrored the captain's movements. Jimmy had no illusions of victory and expected to be taken down quickly. But he was resolved to not go down without a fight.
Hawthorne rushed at him, leading with a front kick. Jimmy slapped it away, but it was just a setup for a follow-up strike to the face. Hawthorne's palm lightly slapped Jimmy in place of a knuckle punch, disorienting the younger man momentarily. But before he could regain his awareness, the sky flipped over, and the ground came up to hit him. The air in his lungs escaped on impact with the ground. Jimmy had no clue what had been done to him, but it was done precisely, and his eyes were transfixed on the few remaining stars in the early morning sky.
Cheers and shouts erupted around him as he lay on the grass. Hawthorne towered over him, offering a helping hand. Jimmy obliged but felt extremely embarrassed. He'd hoped to put on more of the show before being unceremoniously dumped on the ground like a sack of potatoes. However, beneath the embarrassment, a determination to improve his skills was already taking root.
"We're going to have to work on your fighting skills, son," Hawthorne said with a smirk.
Jimmy, wiping the grass off his uniform, just nodded in the affirmative. A few teammates patted him on the back before melting away again.
"All right, Boss," Kievskaya said. "We have just enough time left for a decent run."
Hawthorne furrowed his eyes. "Oh? Define ‘decent.’"
"I'm thinking we go easy on the new guy and keep it under five miles for today," Kievskaya said.
That sent Jimmy's mind racing. What was considered a good run if only five miles was considered decent? Jimmy didn't know, but he figured he would find out shortly. He'd barely recovered from selection, but his body still had more healing to do. A five-mile run would serve to test his recovery, Jimmy surmised.
"Okay," Hawthorne said. "Explain our route to the new guy."
"Got it, Boss," Kievskaya said, before turning to Jimmy. "We take this main road straight until you hit an intersection where you'll see the fire department. Turn round at the yield sign and run back. The whole thing is five miles in total."
"Yes, Sergeant," Jimmy said with a dip of his chin.
"All right, people. To the starting line," Kievskaya called out to everyone.
The small herd of bodies meandered over to the edge of the parking lot where the main road began.
"Go." This was said with just enough volume to be heard. The operators took off like lightning. Jimmy scrambled to start running and keep up with the others. His still-recovering hamstring protested, aching dully, but he was resolved to push through. After completing the selection, Jimmy felt he could handle anything life threw at him. But his noble willpower couldn't account for physics, and the horde of elite operators disappeared into the darkness before him.
His lungs burned as he was in an anaerobic state, his legs speeding as fast as they could to keep up. But when the last operator disappeared from view, he slowed his pace and tried regulating his breathing.
"Screw this shit!" he spat aloud, leaning into his run. After a few moments of reduced stride and some breathing techniques, Jimmy decided to redouble his efforts and run faster. He was already running faster than he was accustomed to during regular Army PT, but he knew he would have to step up his fitness game going forward.
He remembered that he'd just come out of selection, and despite the nanotechnology and the ice baths, his body still had some healing to do. Besides, the operators had all been in the SF community much longer than he had and would have had time to increase their fitness levels.
But being left behind was a pet peeve of his. He'd never fallen out of any run and been left behind before, so he wouldn't start now. Tapping into the well of willpower he'd discovered he had during selection, Jimmy increased his gait and leaned into the run, checking his form along the way.
Still, there was no hope of catching up to the others, and Jimmy was on his own, testing his own limits with nobody watching.
The streetlamps up ahead were still lit, but with the sun threatening to rise above the treetops, Jimmy now had an unobstructed view of the running course. This gave him a new boost of confidence. At least he could see his objective and have something to focus on. Unlike the death march at selection, he knew the distance he needed to travel and the route he needed to take. He used that to fortify his mind and push himself even harder. He knew he would catch up to the others, but that wasn't the point of the exercise. He would never be on their level if he didn't regularly push his body out of its comfort zone.
Thankful for the opportunity to learn his limits in selection, he now knew how far he could push himself as long as he had a goal in mind.
His lungs burned, but he found a rhythm and kept pushing. Mindful of his running form, Jimmy locked his eyes on the fire station ahead and kicked into another gear. Now, just shy of a dead sprint, Jimmy finally arrived at the turn round point.
He stopped briefly and threw his arms over his head to give his lungs a full range of motion, gulping down fresh air with long, deep breaths. Turning about, he leaned in again and pushed himself as hard as possible for the final stretch.
The way back was uneventful, albeit painful. But Jimmy saw the barracks up ahead and slowed his blistering pace to a more subtle jog to slow his heart rate gradually. When he reached the parking lot in front of the barracks, the rest of the operators were long gone, save for Captain Hawthorne and Master Sergeant Best. The two senior men seemed to chat lightly in the early morning sun. Neither was breathing heavily from the five-mile sprint they'd just completed.
Feeling ashamed he'd come in last, Jimmy subconsciously lowered his head in shame as he approached the senior leaders.
"Well, the new guy survived," Master Sergeant Best chuckled.
"I think I need to recover more from selection, to be fair," Jimmy said with labored breath.
Hawthorne offered an empathetic glance. "It takes time. We've all been in your shoes."
"What do you want me to do now, sir?" Jimmy asked, eager to change the subject.
"Get cleaned up," Best chimed in. “Get a hearty breakfast and then get suited up in some fresh fatigues. We're going to the range today."
"Zero nine across the road," Hawthorne added, pointing to a nondescript building across the street. "That's our armory over there."
Jimmy glanced at the building and then turned back to the senior leaders. "Got it, Boss. And for the record, I'm sorry I ran so slow."
"Just give yourself another dose from that module I gave you, and you'll be right as rain. It may take you weeks to get on our level of fitness. None of us got to this level quickly, son. It takes time to adjust," Captain Hawthorne said.
"Understood, Boss," Jimmy said, and turned towards the barracks.
19
Planet Sanctuary, a few months earlier...
Ramus wore captain's insignia, but was called ‘the Commander’ by his troops. The resistance was held together by only the strongest leaders of those who opposed being occupied by the SNA and its allies. The former commando walked the encampment that had been assaulted by the SNA operators. Bodies were strewn everywhere and were being covered by blankets at the hands of Ramus' personal guards.
The lone survivor was critically wounded, and his men labored to stabilize the fallen soldier. Ramus looked on as wounds were compressed and fluids applied. Ramus knew the nanobots would keep him alive for the time being. But he needed the wounded warrior to be coherent enough to share his story of what happened.
Ramus scowled at the losses. The encampment was his primary hub for collecting captives and shipping them to whatever smuggler he could flag down. The revenue that stemmed from the slave trade was lucrative enough to keep his men fed and armed. His mission was to safeguard the precious operation, and this was his first-ever failure.
Crouching down beside the fallen soldier, Ramus put his hand on the wounded man's arm and then locked eyes with him. "Tell me, who did this? MARSOC? Rangers?"
