Desert Raider
Disclaimer: I don't the Kingdom Hearts or any other franchise mentioned here. In a world besieged by the Heartless, SAS officer Rusty Puckett defies orders to rescue the woman he loves. This fic will include other theme parks and franchises other than Disney.
~ ~ ~ ~
Another enemy bomber exploded as I dropped a Lewes bomb into its engine compartment. Judging by the way I placed it, I must've hit a fuel tank or the like. The Lewes is an effective explosive, I think, it's a light one pound thing that packs quite a wallop when placed in sensitive spots in an aircraft and since I'm carrying nineteen others, I've got the potential to demolish nineteen more planes.
Behind me, Digger's shooting a magazine into the radio of the airfield we've attacked. It's only lightly defended by the Heartless, but it's got a plump target rating. I have my Sten machine pistol at my side for self defense as well as a Browning automatic.
Around me, the other twelve blokes of 1 SAS are raising all the havoc they can on the Heartless. "Digger, watch out!" I shout as I gun down a Bandit that was going to run him through.
As we're shooting the place to hell a couple of LRDG (Long Range Desert Group) trucks speed in and the lot of us clamor into the back and fire off rounds as we drive off into the night.
~ ~ ~ ~
Two years later: The Regiment was formed to strike behind enemy lines almost two years ago when the Heartless hit our world. We grew from an initial force of 70 officers and enlisted men to almost two Regiments worth of approximately 250 to 300 men apiece. We're his Majesty's best force for small, rapid, strikes behind enemy lines. I was with her during her infancy, when we were just getting started, being dubbed the Special Air Service.
"Good morning lieutenant," says an officer, an American officer named Colonel Hosgrove, "I suppose your wondering why you've been transferred here to London."
"Yes sir." I reply, candidly, "1 SAS is still on the frontlines on the Olympia front."
"You came with high recommendations from Major Gates, your squadron commander. You've been with 1 SAS since its formation?" Hosgrove asks.
"Yes sir." I reply, not sure what the hell that has to do with anything.
"I know you consider yourself another anonymous fighting man in ranks, but you're not." Hosgrove continues, "As I said before, you volunteered for the SAS as soon as you were able to. I believe you were a 2nd Lieutenant fresh out of school. To the rest of the Army of Britannica and indeed to most other units you guys are seen as a group of scruffy looking nonconformists."
At this I'm suddenly feeling self conscious, clad in my dusty khaki desert fatigues, my rather worn officer's cap tucked under my left arm and my roller necked sweater having an oil stain from my last mission a little over twenty four hours before I was flown in a Wellington bomber back to London from Olympia. Hosgrove by contrast is every inch the spit and polished US Army officer. His shoes are polished to a high gloss, the creases in his trousers can cut bread, his ribbons and warfare devices are all brand new. His hair is cut in a neat crew cut where mine has grown out a bit.
"You're exactly the sort of man we need, Puckett." Hosgrove replied, "I don't suppose you've heard of the Office of Strategic Services."
I shake my head, as he continues, "We're equivalent to your world's Special Operations Executive. We're a cloak and dagger force dedicated to taking on the Heartless deep behind the lines, we nip their attacks at the bud, you might say."
I know a little of SOE, they're a unit that parachutes secret agents behind enemy lines to teach resistance movements a thing or two about fighting the Heartless. They've sometimes asked for help from 1 SAS and we've done our bit to help with their cloak and dagger operations.
"You were part of a bad parachute drop with the first operation. Out of the over sixty officers and men to drop in, you were one four officers to survive." Hosgrove continues, "Over the next two years you participated in hundreds of small, effective raids behind enemy lines. In effect you're exactly the sort of man we need."
There's a knock on the door and Hosgrove says, "Come in."
The visitor does so and I am graced with the sight of a woman I've not seen for nearly three years. She is slim, athletically figured, with short dark brown hair and eyes, standing about 5'6" to my 5'8". As my face registers recognition, so does hers.
"You know each other lieutenant?" Hosgrove asks.
"Yes sir." Both of us reply simultaneously. I'm feeling more self conscious, because my dusty fatigues and sweater contrast sharply with her crisp, clean summer white uniform, marking her as a lieutenant junior grade in the US Navy.
"That should make the transition easier." Hosgrove replies, "Lieutenant Schonke, Mr. Puckett will be working with us for now."
Diane Schonke smiles at me, that same warm friendly smile that cuts right through any pretensions of shielding I have around my heart. I smile back, a smile that's kinda hidden under about four days worth of beard growth. What is it about this woman?
"Well, lieutenants, if there are no questions, I believe Puckett might want to grab a shower, shave and change of uniform." Hosgrove says.
"No arguments here sir." I reply.
"Very well, dismissed." Hosgrove says.
Again I walk out into the expansive corridors of a Victorian estate just outside of London. OSS/SOE Headquarters is housed on the land of Sir David Niles, former member of His Majesty's Secret Service. The officers, myself included, are housed in the main house's spare bedrooms, of which there are a considerable amount. The enlisted personnel reside in billets built on the estate. Not something I'm too fond of, mind you, the almost aristocratic division between man and officer. It's almost medieval in its form and about as modern. Not so in the SAS, we are often characterized as rogues because of the closeness of relation between officer and man. That's because we rely on each other behind enemy lines. There is no room for the elitist snobbery that the more rank conscious structures have a tendency to produce in our unit.
Diane's giving me the tour of the place as we walk down the corridors, "The dining room doubles as our officer's mess, or wardroom in Navy-speak. The communication's office is housed in the mansion's study. The drawing room is our briefing area and also doubles as our lounge and officer's club."
This whole area just radiates, 'Just For Officers'. Bollocks to it. I'm not big into the throwing about of rank that I see occurring in regular units, and that's why what I had in A Squadron, 1 SAS appeals to me. We then pass by a number of guest rooms upstairs, each with names on them.
"This is where we the officers live. The senior and staff NCOs are housed in the servants quarters on the first floor and the junior enlisted live in the auxiliary servants quarters in the garden." Diane explains as we stop at a door with the name plate, 1st Lt. Rusty Puckett, 1 SAS on it. I also share the room with two blokes from the RAF. I drop my kit next to the unoccupied bed and as soon as Diane leaves the room to attend to other duties, I strip off my uniform and boots and take a shower.
By the time I've thrown on a fresh uniform and sweater it's already dinner time, so I head downstairs into the main dining room which is where the officers eat. The enlisted mess and NCOs mess are in the two secondary dining rooms in the estate.
A bronze complexioned, older fellow of Greek origins passes by me as I walk down the staircase. "Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help but notice that you're a member of the Regiment."
"The one and only 1 SAS." I reply proudly, "Color Sergeant."
I can tell he's a member of the Atlantis Sacred Squadron. When the Heartless overran the world of Atlantis, many Atlanteans formed various Free Atlantis regiments in Britannica. Quite a few, about fifty, actually, reinforced us after the disaster of our first operation. They became known as the Atlantis Sacred Squadron, dedicated to freeing the Lost Continent from the Heartless. They were damn fierce fighters in and out of water, but since the former was their specialty, after the Egypt campaign they were sent off with the Special Boat Service, the maritime equivalent of the SAS.
"Mr. Puckett, can that be you?" the Color Sergeant replies.
"Yes." I reply, then I look harder. I know this man, I served with him in Egypt during the desert campaign.
"Color Sergeant Nikolas Kyprios."
"You picked up Color Sergeant? You bag of shit." I joke.
"They let you be an officer? You bag of shit." He replies, genuinely glad to see a familiar face. Despite the fact that I outrank him, Nikolas has been fighting wars longer than I've been alive, so it behooves me to listen to his sage advice. He's in his mid-forties, with the sallow, jaundiced look of a veteran soldier. He served with the royal guard of his king, until his sovereign lord was killed by the Heartless.
"On a more serious note, don't turn into Major Darby. Bitter, vindictive bastard if I ever saw one." Nikolas replies.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Lieutenant Puckett?" an orderly says, walking into the small drawing room with a file for me.
"Yes." I reply.
"Colonel Hosgrove wishes to speak to you, sir." The orderly replies.
Dutifully I head for the ornate office that has been designated for the Colonel and knock on the door, "1st Lieutenant Puckett reporting as ordered, sir."
"Come in." Hosgrove says, "I trust you found the accommodations to your liking."
"Yes sir." I reply. In reality I'd rather be out in the field with my unit. 1 SAS is still kicking ass and taking names on the Olympia front.
"Well, I'm sorry you couldn't settle in for a few days more, but something important just cropped up. This is your first assignment." Hosgrove says, "It's an assignment, frankly, that someone of your caliber is ideally suited for."
I feel the old juices start flowing again. Once again I will be doing the work of a real soldier. I open the file under my arm and see a picture of a silver haired man, wearing tuxedo with a microphone.
"This is Vic Fontaine, he's a lounge singer and entertainer in the Sea World Odyssea theater. He is our main source of intelligence on the Heartless operating in the area. Now the Resistance in that area have recently learned that Vic Fontaine was arrested by Maleficent's Secret Police last night. Vic Fontaine recently came upon some information that is evidently of great importance, but he never got the chance to deliver it." Hosgrove begins, "Lieutenant Schonke will be briefing you on more details and objectives for this operation. Just one warning, lieutenant, if you are compromised in any way you're on your own."
"Yes sir." I reply.
"Dismissed." Hosgrove says.
~ ~ ~ ~
Diane is waiting for me in the drawing room, the same file carried under one arm. "Good morning Rusty. Sorry again you didn't have time to really settle in."
"It's alright." I reply. Hell, anytime and place where I'm close to Diane I can classify as Heaven. But I don't say it.
"Anyway, for the mission, your first objective is to rendezvous with the local resistance forces. Your contact will be singing the phrase, 'She got the way to move me, Cherry.' That's your first objective. Second is to break into Vic Fontaine's suite at the Delphi Hotel and destroy his communication equipment and code books. I cannot stress this enough, they have to be destroyed otherwise. Third, in any way possible rescue Vic Fontaine and get him back here. You have five days to complete the mission. An aircraft from RAF No. 36 Squadron will be on hand to retrieve you. You're inserting via a trawler. Draw weapons and civilian clothing from supply." Diane says.
Diane walks with me out back to the armory, a small stone outbuilding that fell into disuse sometime in the decades this manor had been around. We refurbished it and stocked it with every manner of weapon. The MP guarding the entrance salutes us as we show him our ID cards and lets us in.
It's a tough choice between a single shot, silenced .22 caliber pistol intended for covert assassinations and a Browning HP 9mm, a thirteen shot single action automatic pistol. With the mission profile Diane and I went over I might need a silenced weapon, particularly to kill Vic's guards when I get to rescuing him. But there's a real possibility I might have to shoot my way out of a particular problem. I take the Browning and two spare clips. I'd sooner have firepower over stealth right about now.
I load the three magazines up and we walk back into the mansion for my disguise, in this case a set of nondescript civilian clothes, replacing my fatigues and sweater. After I get dressed I tuck the pistol into the waistband of my trousers and head into a jeep that's taking me to the airfield. As I get into the jeep, Diane smiles at me and says a quiet, 'Good luck.'
"I'll be back before you know it." I reply, casually, and calmly in a way that no way mirrors what I feel inside. My heart's pounding like a hammer inside my chest, the way it always does when I'm ready to slip behind enemy lines. This time it's different. There isn't a jeep patrol, a Long Range Desert Group, or even fellow soldiers to back me up. It's just me and my wits. In the SAS we are trained to operate on our own if need be, but it's not something we relish doing. Once on my own behind enemy lines was bad enough.
I take a last glance at Diane as we drive away from the estate, the only woman to have ever cut through any defenses I might have built around it. You might ask how long I have had these feelings for her. Years and long enough I'd reply.
She'd been a part of my life in my childhood, which wasn't the best in the world. You see, I'm an orphan. I was raised by a woman named Lawanda Dumore, a banker who kept her age well and was seductive and beautiful but cruel and cold hearted. She had been through six husbands in her life. Of the three foster children in the household, I was the one she blamed for everything, she often belittled me at every turn, saying I'd never amount to anything. I had to toughen up at an early age to leave that household with my sanity intact. Diane was one of the few bright stars of those years under my roof in the Dumore household.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Diane's really grown into a fine young woman." Lowanda said, "She's gonna really be something someday. An honor student, a great softball player, the detachment commander of her NJROTC unit, only seventeen and she's achieved that much already. Why she chooses to be a friend of someone like you is beyond me."
She speaks to me like I'm some kind of bum. I'm only seventeen and I've so far achieved a 3.89 GPA (not comparable to Diane's being valedictorian, obviously), I'm a member of the school rugby team, and I'm soon destined to go to the university somewhere and leave this mad place.
"Oh well, she'll outgrow friendship with you eventually when she comes to her senses." Lowanda says, "Once she sees what a worthless child you are."
"I'm not worthless." I reply.
"Don't talk to your mother that way." Lowanda replies.
"Mother? Hah! You've been no mother of mine!" I reply.
"If you honestly think Diane will give you the love you don't deserve your sadly mistaken." Lowanda replies, her voice fading as I walk out of the house.
Bollocks. Diane's been my best friend since I first came here four years ago. She's always been willing to be kind and compassionate to me, even though I was the shy outsider. I had no idea about the six kinds of hell I was about to encounter in the hours following that moment.
~ ~ ~ ~
The vibration of the single engine Lysander observation aircraft jars me awake. "Puckett, we're over border. We're coming in for a landing."
Aside from the lights of the nearby Sea World I see only the dark surrounding swamps. I see one of the many open fields with several small lights clustered in a cross around it. That is the signal to the pilots of 36 Sqn RAF that it's a landing sight to deliver secret agents into enemy territory.
The plane lands on the field and I jump out. No sooner than my feet hit the ground, the pilot's taking off again towards Britannica, leaving me on my own. Now it is up to me to make contact with the Resistance on this world. My mission behind enemy lines has begun and my memories of my childhood are pushed from my conscious.
~ ~ ~ ~
TBC
Disclaimer: I don't the Kingdom Hearts or any other franchise mentioned here. In a world besieged by the Heartless, SAS officer Rusty Puckett defies orders to rescue the woman he loves. This fic will include other theme parks and franchises other than Disney.
~ ~ ~ ~
Another enemy bomber exploded as I dropped a Lewes bomb into its engine compartment. Judging by the way I placed it, I must've hit a fuel tank or the like. The Lewes is an effective explosive, I think, it's a light one pound thing that packs quite a wallop when placed in sensitive spots in an aircraft and since I'm carrying nineteen others, I've got the potential to demolish nineteen more planes.
Behind me, Digger's shooting a magazine into the radio of the airfield we've attacked. It's only lightly defended by the Heartless, but it's got a plump target rating. I have my Sten machine pistol at my side for self defense as well as a Browning automatic.
Around me, the other twelve blokes of 1 SAS are raising all the havoc they can on the Heartless. "Digger, watch out!" I shout as I gun down a Bandit that was going to run him through.
As we're shooting the place to hell a couple of LRDG (Long Range Desert Group) trucks speed in and the lot of us clamor into the back and fire off rounds as we drive off into the night.
~ ~ ~ ~
Two years later: The Regiment was formed to strike behind enemy lines almost two years ago when the Heartless hit our world. We grew from an initial force of 70 officers and enlisted men to almost two Regiments worth of approximately 250 to 300 men apiece. We're his Majesty's best force for small, rapid, strikes behind enemy lines. I was with her during her infancy, when we were just getting started, being dubbed the Special Air Service.
"Good morning lieutenant," says an officer, an American officer named Colonel Hosgrove, "I suppose your wondering why you've been transferred here to London."
"Yes sir." I reply, candidly, "1 SAS is still on the frontlines on the Olympia front."
"You came with high recommendations from Major Gates, your squadron commander. You've been with 1 SAS since its formation?" Hosgrove asks.
"Yes sir." I reply, not sure what the hell that has to do with anything.
"I know you consider yourself another anonymous fighting man in ranks, but you're not." Hosgrove continues, "As I said before, you volunteered for the SAS as soon as you were able to. I believe you were a 2nd Lieutenant fresh out of school. To the rest of the Army of Britannica and indeed to most other units you guys are seen as a group of scruffy looking nonconformists."
At this I'm suddenly feeling self conscious, clad in my dusty khaki desert fatigues, my rather worn officer's cap tucked under my left arm and my roller necked sweater having an oil stain from my last mission a little over twenty four hours before I was flown in a Wellington bomber back to London from Olympia. Hosgrove by contrast is every inch the spit and polished US Army officer. His shoes are polished to a high gloss, the creases in his trousers can cut bread, his ribbons and warfare devices are all brand new. His hair is cut in a neat crew cut where mine has grown out a bit.
"You're exactly the sort of man we need, Puckett." Hosgrove replied, "I don't suppose you've heard of the Office of Strategic Services."
I shake my head, as he continues, "We're equivalent to your world's Special Operations Executive. We're a cloak and dagger force dedicated to taking on the Heartless deep behind the lines, we nip their attacks at the bud, you might say."
I know a little of SOE, they're a unit that parachutes secret agents behind enemy lines to teach resistance movements a thing or two about fighting the Heartless. They've sometimes asked for help from 1 SAS and we've done our bit to help with their cloak and dagger operations.
"You were part of a bad parachute drop with the first operation. Out of the over sixty officers and men to drop in, you were one four officers to survive." Hosgrove continues, "Over the next two years you participated in hundreds of small, effective raids behind enemy lines. In effect you're exactly the sort of man we need."
There's a knock on the door and Hosgrove says, "Come in."
The visitor does so and I am graced with the sight of a woman I've not seen for nearly three years. She is slim, athletically figured, with short dark brown hair and eyes, standing about 5'6" to my 5'8". As my face registers recognition, so does hers.
"You know each other lieutenant?" Hosgrove asks.
"Yes sir." Both of us reply simultaneously. I'm feeling more self conscious, because my dusty fatigues and sweater contrast sharply with her crisp, clean summer white uniform, marking her as a lieutenant junior grade in the US Navy.
"That should make the transition easier." Hosgrove replies, "Lieutenant Schonke, Mr. Puckett will be working with us for now."
Diane Schonke smiles at me, that same warm friendly smile that cuts right through any pretensions of shielding I have around my heart. I smile back, a smile that's kinda hidden under about four days worth of beard growth. What is it about this woman?
"Well, lieutenants, if there are no questions, I believe Puckett might want to grab a shower, shave and change of uniform." Hosgrove says.
"No arguments here sir." I reply.
"Very well, dismissed." Hosgrove says.
Again I walk out into the expansive corridors of a Victorian estate just outside of London. OSS/SOE Headquarters is housed on the land of Sir David Niles, former member of His Majesty's Secret Service. The officers, myself included, are housed in the main house's spare bedrooms, of which there are a considerable amount. The enlisted personnel reside in billets built on the estate. Not something I'm too fond of, mind you, the almost aristocratic division between man and officer. It's almost medieval in its form and about as modern. Not so in the SAS, we are often characterized as rogues because of the closeness of relation between officer and man. That's because we rely on each other behind enemy lines. There is no room for the elitist snobbery that the more rank conscious structures have a tendency to produce in our unit.
Diane's giving me the tour of the place as we walk down the corridors, "The dining room doubles as our officer's mess, or wardroom in Navy-speak. The communication's office is housed in the mansion's study. The drawing room is our briefing area and also doubles as our lounge and officer's club."
This whole area just radiates, 'Just For Officers'. Bollocks to it. I'm not big into the throwing about of rank that I see occurring in regular units, and that's why what I had in A Squadron, 1 SAS appeals to me. We then pass by a number of guest rooms upstairs, each with names on them.
"This is where we the officers live. The senior and staff NCOs are housed in the servants quarters on the first floor and the junior enlisted live in the auxiliary servants quarters in the garden." Diane explains as we stop at a door with the name plate, 1st Lt. Rusty Puckett, 1 SAS on it. I also share the room with two blokes from the RAF. I drop my kit next to the unoccupied bed and as soon as Diane leaves the room to attend to other duties, I strip off my uniform and boots and take a shower.
By the time I've thrown on a fresh uniform and sweater it's already dinner time, so I head downstairs into the main dining room which is where the officers eat. The enlisted mess and NCOs mess are in the two secondary dining rooms in the estate.
A bronze complexioned, older fellow of Greek origins passes by me as I walk down the staircase. "Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help but notice that you're a member of the Regiment."
"The one and only 1 SAS." I reply proudly, "Color Sergeant."
I can tell he's a member of the Atlantis Sacred Squadron. When the Heartless overran the world of Atlantis, many Atlanteans formed various Free Atlantis regiments in Britannica. Quite a few, about fifty, actually, reinforced us after the disaster of our first operation. They became known as the Atlantis Sacred Squadron, dedicated to freeing the Lost Continent from the Heartless. They were damn fierce fighters in and out of water, but since the former was their specialty, after the Egypt campaign they were sent off with the Special Boat Service, the maritime equivalent of the SAS.
"Mr. Puckett, can that be you?" the Color Sergeant replies.
"Yes." I reply, then I look harder. I know this man, I served with him in Egypt during the desert campaign.
"Color Sergeant Nikolas Kyprios."
"You picked up Color Sergeant? You bag of shit." I joke.
"They let you be an officer? You bag of shit." He replies, genuinely glad to see a familiar face. Despite the fact that I outrank him, Nikolas has been fighting wars longer than I've been alive, so it behooves me to listen to his sage advice. He's in his mid-forties, with the sallow, jaundiced look of a veteran soldier. He served with the royal guard of his king, until his sovereign lord was killed by the Heartless.
"On a more serious note, don't turn into Major Darby. Bitter, vindictive bastard if I ever saw one." Nikolas replies.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Lieutenant Puckett?" an orderly says, walking into the small drawing room with a file for me.
"Yes." I reply.
"Colonel Hosgrove wishes to speak to you, sir." The orderly replies.
Dutifully I head for the ornate office that has been designated for the Colonel and knock on the door, "1st Lieutenant Puckett reporting as ordered, sir."
"Come in." Hosgrove says, "I trust you found the accommodations to your liking."
"Yes sir." I reply. In reality I'd rather be out in the field with my unit. 1 SAS is still kicking ass and taking names on the Olympia front.
"Well, I'm sorry you couldn't settle in for a few days more, but something important just cropped up. This is your first assignment." Hosgrove says, "It's an assignment, frankly, that someone of your caliber is ideally suited for."
I feel the old juices start flowing again. Once again I will be doing the work of a real soldier. I open the file under my arm and see a picture of a silver haired man, wearing tuxedo with a microphone.
"This is Vic Fontaine, he's a lounge singer and entertainer in the Sea World Odyssea theater. He is our main source of intelligence on the Heartless operating in the area. Now the Resistance in that area have recently learned that Vic Fontaine was arrested by Maleficent's Secret Police last night. Vic Fontaine recently came upon some information that is evidently of great importance, but he never got the chance to deliver it." Hosgrove begins, "Lieutenant Schonke will be briefing you on more details and objectives for this operation. Just one warning, lieutenant, if you are compromised in any way you're on your own."
"Yes sir." I reply.
"Dismissed." Hosgrove says.
~ ~ ~ ~
Diane is waiting for me in the drawing room, the same file carried under one arm. "Good morning Rusty. Sorry again you didn't have time to really settle in."
"It's alright." I reply. Hell, anytime and place where I'm close to Diane I can classify as Heaven. But I don't say it.
"Anyway, for the mission, your first objective is to rendezvous with the local resistance forces. Your contact will be singing the phrase, 'She got the way to move me, Cherry.' That's your first objective. Second is to break into Vic Fontaine's suite at the Delphi Hotel and destroy his communication equipment and code books. I cannot stress this enough, they have to be destroyed otherwise. Third, in any way possible rescue Vic Fontaine and get him back here. You have five days to complete the mission. An aircraft from RAF No. 36 Squadron will be on hand to retrieve you. You're inserting via a trawler. Draw weapons and civilian clothing from supply." Diane says.
Diane walks with me out back to the armory, a small stone outbuilding that fell into disuse sometime in the decades this manor had been around. We refurbished it and stocked it with every manner of weapon. The MP guarding the entrance salutes us as we show him our ID cards and lets us in.
It's a tough choice between a single shot, silenced .22 caliber pistol intended for covert assassinations and a Browning HP 9mm, a thirteen shot single action automatic pistol. With the mission profile Diane and I went over I might need a silenced weapon, particularly to kill Vic's guards when I get to rescuing him. But there's a real possibility I might have to shoot my way out of a particular problem. I take the Browning and two spare clips. I'd sooner have firepower over stealth right about now.
I load the three magazines up and we walk back into the mansion for my disguise, in this case a set of nondescript civilian clothes, replacing my fatigues and sweater. After I get dressed I tuck the pistol into the waistband of my trousers and head into a jeep that's taking me to the airfield. As I get into the jeep, Diane smiles at me and says a quiet, 'Good luck.'
"I'll be back before you know it." I reply, casually, and calmly in a way that no way mirrors what I feel inside. My heart's pounding like a hammer inside my chest, the way it always does when I'm ready to slip behind enemy lines. This time it's different. There isn't a jeep patrol, a Long Range Desert Group, or even fellow soldiers to back me up. It's just me and my wits. In the SAS we are trained to operate on our own if need be, but it's not something we relish doing. Once on my own behind enemy lines was bad enough.
I take a last glance at Diane as we drive away from the estate, the only woman to have ever cut through any defenses I might have built around it. You might ask how long I have had these feelings for her. Years and long enough I'd reply.
She'd been a part of my life in my childhood, which wasn't the best in the world. You see, I'm an orphan. I was raised by a woman named Lawanda Dumore, a banker who kept her age well and was seductive and beautiful but cruel and cold hearted. She had been through six husbands in her life. Of the three foster children in the household, I was the one she blamed for everything, she often belittled me at every turn, saying I'd never amount to anything. I had to toughen up at an early age to leave that household with my sanity intact. Diane was one of the few bright stars of those years under my roof in the Dumore household.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Diane's really grown into a fine young woman." Lowanda said, "She's gonna really be something someday. An honor student, a great softball player, the detachment commander of her NJROTC unit, only seventeen and she's achieved that much already. Why she chooses to be a friend of someone like you is beyond me."
She speaks to me like I'm some kind of bum. I'm only seventeen and I've so far achieved a 3.89 GPA (not comparable to Diane's being valedictorian, obviously), I'm a member of the school rugby team, and I'm soon destined to go to the university somewhere and leave this mad place.
"Oh well, she'll outgrow friendship with you eventually when she comes to her senses." Lowanda says, "Once she sees what a worthless child you are."
"I'm not worthless." I reply.
"Don't talk to your mother that way." Lowanda replies.
"Mother? Hah! You've been no mother of mine!" I reply.
"If you honestly think Diane will give you the love you don't deserve your sadly mistaken." Lowanda replies, her voice fading as I walk out of the house.
Bollocks. Diane's been my best friend since I first came here four years ago. She's always been willing to be kind and compassionate to me, even though I was the shy outsider. I had no idea about the six kinds of hell I was about to encounter in the hours following that moment.
~ ~ ~ ~
The vibration of the single engine Lysander observation aircraft jars me awake. "Puckett, we're over border. We're coming in for a landing."
Aside from the lights of the nearby Sea World I see only the dark surrounding swamps. I see one of the many open fields with several small lights clustered in a cross around it. That is the signal to the pilots of 36 Sqn RAF that it's a landing sight to deliver secret agents into enemy territory.
The plane lands on the field and I jump out. No sooner than my feet hit the ground, the pilot's taking off again towards Britannica, leaving me on my own. Now it is up to me to make contact with the Resistance on this world. My mission behind enemy lines has begun and my memories of my childhood are pushed from my conscious.
~ ~ ~ ~
TBC