White Phosphorus/ The Modern Day Heart of Darkness

Walker just ordered his men to bombard a unit stationed within the immediate vicinity of a sheltered civilian outpost. They didn't know that what they just did will be forever pinned within the annals of their psyche. They couldn't have known it; no one would blame them for it, at least that's what he thinks.

In his mind, they were the heroes, the good guys, the righteous ones that were sent to liberate everyone in Dubai. He took up this mission to prove his competence and leadership. They were always told in the military school that they were the strongest organized force in the world; the finest America has to offer. Several hours with their drill instructor were spent on breaking and rebuilding them. Rinse and repeat, until they were nothing more but a bunch of hardened soldiers that epitomize the might of their country. Expectations were high; failure was not an option for them. In true Machiavellian fashion, they were ordered to do any means necessary to accomplish the task at hand. Walker firmly held a salute, signifying an affirmation to his Commanding Officer. With this one off the hook and off his table, Walker thought that he will make a name for himself; a chance for a taste of what past American heroes had. In a perfect world, he would already be awarded the Medal of Honor, given a privileged speech by the president himself. That time's not now. He and his men must still wade through the once tango-ridden agora to get to their objective – a complete juxtaposition from what it was when Delta tainted it with their heroism.

After walking a few meters to observe all the handiwork that they just did, Lugo immediately thought to himself otherwise. This is inhumane. This is not what he signed up for. The once symbolic plaza that represented life and prosperity in the desert, the oasis that gave traveling merchants a chance to rest and recuperate was now littered with numerous bodies, most of them burned to the bone. A lucky few that were not immediately accounted for the initial blast scampered to safety, cringing in horror at the three silhouettes that posed against the sunlight – a common sight in television, wherein a hero trumps the villain then proceeds to gloriously ride into the sunset, credits roll. If Walker only had the luxury to lie to himself, he would find this satisfying. This was not the case. Everywhere he looked only reflected the state he was in: depraved and deprived.

Thoughts of Dante's Inferno soon came into Lugo's mind and he wondered if he belonged to the same paragraph with those that whimpered and cried just to ease the searing heat that they would have to endure, not to mention the pitchforks of the perverted demons that oversaw their agony. Charred hands went out to them, begging them profusely to end their own miserable life. Walker merely dismissed it, spurning a torrent of moot points by both Adams and Lugo. He calmly told them that there was nothing more they could do to help them. With a blatant stare and a firm grip to his military-issue M4, Walker shouldered on.