115 miles north-east of Kandahar, Afghanistan

14 August 2016

13:09:26

Even when he was a boy growing up in Arizona, Carl Vinson had never liked the desert. It was too hot and sticky and the sand always managed to get into the most irritating places. He adjusted the crotch of his pants again, fingers clawing for the edge of his briefs, hoping to dislodge some of the irritating grit. But when it stuck resolutely to the sweat in the crease of his legs he gave up and continued his patrol, making a mental note to wear cotton boxers from now on.

"I'm so fuckin' sick of sand man. Shit gets everywhere."

Ltn. James Lambert hated deserts as much as Carl did. Not just for the sand and the heat but the spiders and snakes and scorpions that hid in the scraggly scrubs around the river near by. He'd pummeled a camel spider with the heel of his shoe more than was necessary the other day. He maintained he wasn't scared of them but did not want them as bed buddies, so one less on base meant one less likely to hide in his room. Sgt. Young had pushed his luck a bit too far after hearing this and had released a camel spider on Lambert's bed.

Carl wasn't entirely sure why they were based out in Afghanistan. The war here had ended years ago so their little slice of hell in the mountains wasn't exactly a prime location for anything his company would be useful for. Especially with the war raging back home. But then again, none of them knew what went on in the head office until they were tasked with another mission and told the bare minimum. They were assured that they'd do more damage where they were than if they joined the firefight back home. Instead of talking about the shit sandwich they'd gotten themselves into, Carl asked about the one thing they could talk about without Lambert getting too bitter.

"Any word from Susan?"

"Talked to her the other day," a warm smile softened his expression. "She says the baby's kicking as hard as their da. Only a month to go"

"You must be chomping at the bit to get to South Africa."

"Doesn't look like I'll be there in time for the birth." The dejection in his voice isn't lost on Carl, but why talk about it? Why even mention the invasion going on back home and how lucky he was? At least Susan was safe in South Africa with her brother. Lambert had made sure of that. So instead Carl gives a sympathetic grunt and glances at his watch. He rubs a mark on the face of glass meticulously with his sleeve until it gleams and checks the time. Five minutes and 36 seconds until switch over. Good. He wants to have a shower and get rid of the dust clinging to his bollocks. Hopefully this time the lizards have kept out of the shower block. Thankfully he hadn't seen a snake in there yet but he'd heard a month ago someone had viciously beaten a Viper of some sort to death with a broom handle.

"Butcher 7, return to base, sending out Disciple 4 to take over."

"Rodger that Oxide," replied Lambert into his headset, "returning to base." He motioned for Carl to follow and the two started their walk back. The river rumbled past, drowning out the rhythmic tread of their boots as they crunched over fragments of sediment rock that had toppled from the craggy peaks of the sandstone mountains that lined both sides of the valley that marked their patrol route. Lambert had marveled several times that the mountains were so pitted and weathered they seemed to defy gravity.

They met Disciple 4 on the way in, Lambert stopping to talk to Freymuth, the officer in the group and tell him any new developments in the area. There were none so the conversation was short, though as usual Freymuth never missed the opportunity to crack a few jokes. He was rewarded by the tiniest smile out of Lambert. Two smiles in one day, thought Carl, Lambert must be happy!

"Oh before you get back to a nasty surprise," added Freymuth before they departed, "the top brass is in. General Shepherd himself." Lambert's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

"Maybe he's got a job for us." The hope in Carl's voice was badly disguised.

Lambert smiled tersely at Carl's enthusiasm, his expression nearly unreadable, "Better not keep him waiting then. Thanks for the tip Freymuth."

"Don't mention it." Freymuth waved jovially and he headed off down the valley with Sgt. Gregson in tow. Lambert didn't say anything else during the remaining march back to base and Carl thought it better to not mention how his expression held a certain grimness ever since the mention of the General. He wondered if Lambert was concerned that the sudden arrival of Shepherd might interfere with his plans to head back home in a few months time to Susan and his new baby.

As soon as they were back in the underground tunnels of the mountain, Carl hurried to his room, with a reminder from Lambert to stay dressed incase Shepherd wanted him. No shower then, but he could at least wash the dried sweat off his face. He dipped his hands under the cold running water of the sink and rubbed a bar of soap between his hands. Rub 5 times to get the soap off the bar, then 10 times to froth the slickness into suds. Rub suds into face, splash water and repeat. Some people called Carl quirky with his 'habits'. But he was friendly enough and quick with a joke, so no one felt the need to press him on them. Besides there were unhealthier and more self-destructive habits soldiers turned to than compulsive cleanliness.

When he was patting his face dry there was a knock at the door and, Sgt. Young entered, smiling cheerfully. His eye was still an impressive shade of lime green from the camel spider incident with Lambert.

"General Shepherd said he wanted to see you in the CO's office-" He barely avoided collision as Carl tore past him, rushing to the office.

He found Lambert and his Captain, Griffiths pouring over a map along with another three teams and the General. As if sensing the new arrival, Captain Griffiths glanced up and greeted him with an infectious grin that Carl couldn't help returning and motioned for him to join them. Lambert met Carl's eyes as he approached the table. While his face was unreadable at the best of times, there was a hardness to his features that wasn't there when Carl had last seen him upon return to base.

"Gentlemen," greeted Shepherd, as he began his brief now satisfied all parties were accounted for. "We've managed to track down Makarov to one of two locations. The first location isn't too far from here." He tapped at one of the circled areas on the map, "in the boneyard in Afghanistan. The second" he moved his fingers across the map to the second red circle, in Georgia, "is the Caucasus Mountains in Georgia." He paused when a couple of the officers gathered around the table murmured enthusiastically. A shot of excitement coursed through Carl and he turned to grin at Lambert, which Lambert did not return. Instead, Lambert turned his attention back to Shepherd, eyes narrowing nearly imperceptibly, his lips pressed into a thin line

"There will be contacts in both locations," continued Shepherd, "they will attempt to eliminate Makarov and collect any intel they find. It is our job to collect this intel-"

"Ours?" interrupted Lambert sharply, his brow furrowing, taken off guard by Shepherd's choice of words. Griffiths stiffened next to Lambert, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, ours," returned Shepherd evenly, eying Lambert with a steely gaze. "Collecting that intel is vital for our efforts to finish the war, so I will be overseeing the intel hand-over in Georgia." He looked between both teams. "Our job is to collect this intel and to eliminate the contacts in both areas once the hand-over has occurred."

Silence followed these words as all eyes turned to the grim-faced General. It was unusual- to say the least -to eliminate contacts.

"Captain Griffiths, be ready to move out at 0600 hours. I will be accompanying your team to Georgia."

05:27:29

Carl was woken by the scream of reversing jet engines in the direction of the runway. His tongue was dry and furry and he grabbed his watch on the bedside table. The alarm was set to go off in a couple of minutes. Groaning quietly to himself, he turned off the alarm and crawled out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fumbled for his clothes and kit. He decided he could have a shower after their return to base. The mission while simple, sounded like it was anything but routine. The briefing they had received told them the landing zone would likely be hot with Ultra-Nationalist fire. Yet despite this, General Shepherd was still insisting on coming with them to Georgia. And then there had been the order to kill and dispose of their contacts after obtaining the information from them. It usually paid not to kill your contacts, especially when they were delivering intelligence of such importance that the General felt it was necessary to oversee the exchange. From the way Shepherd had initially talked about it, it sounded like they could have been spies working in the Ultra-nationalist camp. However, further into the briefing, they had received instructions to also eliminate a pair of snipers that would be positioned on a ridge as overwatch to the south of the LZ. To Carl, their contacts sounded more like a team than spies.

When he had finished pulling on the last of his clothes, he collected up his boots and moved silently towards the door, hoping as he slung his holster over his shoulder he hadn't woken the others he shared his room with. Pulling the door towards himself, he twisted the handle and silently left the room.

The horizon was an eggshell blue by the time he stepped out of the barracks into what felt like a solid wall of water. In a couple of hours the humidity would have burned off and the temperature would be an unbearable thirty-something degrees celsius. Wiping his face free of the water drops that already clung to it, he clipped his pancake holster to his waist and adjusted it to sit behind his kidney. Then he dropped the boots and slipped them on, stooping to strap up the laces before setting off at a quick pace towards the mess hall.

There's a buzz of activity on the runway that reminds him of summer holidays spent at the Whiteriver airfield as an apprentice to his dad. The hulking silhouette of a Pavelow came into view as he turned at the end of the barracks, their massive rotor blades beating up the air as the gargantuan T64 engines continued to hiss and scream. A man in a sweat soaked engineer's uniform jogs past in the direction of the hangers, a heavy wooden box under his arm. The dark rings under his eyes suggested he and his team had been working all night, probably trying to make the Pavelows air-worthy.

Carl brushes his hands down his shirt, fingers catching on the strap of his pancake holster as he enters the mess, doing a mental calculation of what else he might need. The rest of his kit was already clustered with the rest of his team's hanger. All he needed to do was chuck back some dry toast and a cup of coffee before he was ready to leave.

There are already a few men from his team in the mess, chewing on toast and nursing mugs of steaming liquid. Lambert is already there too, sipping tea at one of the many empty tables, lost in thought. Years of knowing Lambert had attuned Carl to his body language. He knew he tapped his fingers rhythmically on hard surfaces when he was contented and disconcordantly when he was pissed off. When he was worried his shoulders bunched up so hard, he had to keep rolling his shoulders to prevent the tension headaches. Carl pours himself a cup of coffee, to which he adds three teaspoons of sugar (his lip curled when there's no milk), grabs a slice of dry toast and a few pottles of refined butter. As he approached the table, Lambert rolled his shoulders and neck. Not a great sign.

Carl grunted in greeting, placing his mug and toast on the table, flopping into the chair next to Lambert. The chair legs flex in warning and Carl instinctively grabs for the table to stop him from falling on his ass should one or all of the legs snap off.

"It's too early for a news paper," grunted Lambert in obvious disgust, fingers curled around his cup of Earl Grey. Carl shrugged in response and waved his mug of black coffee at Lambert.

"Too early to milk too. Cow's must be sleeping in." He grinned when Lambert snorted and started smearing butter on his toast with a shitty plastic knife. On stroke four, the knife snapped. Undeterred he collected up the blade and continued to ladle on butter, determined to drown it in refined fat. He briefly considered sprinkling some sugar over it, but decided it'd lead to getting more shit than it was worth from the rest of the team.

They sat in silence while Carl chowed down on his butter stick. He's halfway through when Lambert asked, "Do you think there's anything-" he hesitated, choosing his words very carefully, "-concerning you, about today's mission?"

Carl took a sip of his sweetened coffee and pursed his lips. I should be the one asking you that , he thought, but instead said, "Well… the General coming along is certainly not standard."

Lambert nodded in agreement, adding, "And the order to kill the contacts. It sounds like a team." He hesitated again. "Do you get the feeling there's something else going on here which we don't know about?"

Carl laughed. The bitterness of the sound surprised even himself. "Isn't that always the case? We do the grunt work while the higher-ups know the bigger picture. It's not our job to know what that is. We just follow orders."

"I know that," huffed Lambert impatiently. "But something else is at play here. We're collecting information that's not just important to the war effort or we could have picked it up by ourselves. It's important specifically to the Gener-"

"Lambert! Shut up and think about what you're saying," Carl growls and Lambert's teeth come together with an audible snap of irritation. "Just follow the orders. The General has our best interests at heart."

I hope you enjoyed. This is a re-worked version of my first fanfiction I wrote back in 2010, called Loose Ends. It would be really great to get some feedback on the story as I go so please leave a comment and let me know what you think. It doesn't take long to leave a comment, so please do. A nice comment really boosts the ego and confidence of lowly fanfiction writers, such as myself. And a constructive comment really helps the writer improve their own style.

So please leave a comment, even if it's one a couple of words long!