***
The armory was an impressive sight.
The rows of gun shelves were lined with numerous weapons from all sorts of countries and manufacturing companies. At the end of the racks were explosives and other more destructive types of weaponry. Beyond were ten lockers, wide enough to hold a single soldier’s plethora of gear. Most operators had multiple sets of gear, swapping out mission essential items, only using what was appropriate for individual missions. Despite the weapon porn on display in such extravagance, I couldn’t help but notice my companion, bent at the waist as she cleaned her rifle, her rather supple backside presented for my full inspection.
I couldn’t help but stare, my head lolling to the side. I tried to quickly glance away and cover my mistake when she turned to show me my locker, but I wasn’t quick enough. She settled with giving me another cold look and hooking her thumb behind her shoulder to direct my attention toward the only other open locker. Fate, having a sick sense of humor it seemed, decided to take it upon itself to place our lockers across from one another. Crossing to the bench, I sat upon it and accidentally brushed my back up against hers. I flinched automatically at the contact but she didn’t react. All she did was turn her head to glance in my direction, a slight smile tugging at her mouth.
I shook my head with a smirk of my own, but forced myself to clear my head with a crack of my neck to work the kinks out, and began a cursory inspection of my gear. With a task so familiar and enjoyable, it was almost easy to put the woman out of my head and focus.
Everything seemed to be in order. All of my camouflage uniforms were present, as well as two pairs of boots, one black, the other coyote tan. My Navy dress uniform hung neatly to one side of the locker with my wet suit opposite it. All of my other gear was present and accounted for as well, placed neatly on racks, shelves, or hooks. Helmet with camera and optics eyepiece, rifle magazines, radio and throat microphone, night vision goggles, mobile PC, combat knife, medical kit, glow sticks, zip ties, combat notebook, pen, Escape & Evasion kit, and a plethora of other tools. Last but not least, placed on top of my foot locker was my MOLLE combat rig.
Besides my rifle, my rig was the most important piece of gear I had. MOLLE, or Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment, was a system for attaching compatible pieces of equipment together via webbing and snaps. Without it, I would be unable to carry the heavy amounts of gear essential for a successful mission. The vest was festooned with numerous pockets and pouches scattered around the stomach area, chest, sides, and back.
The back of my rig held a small computer cleverly tucked away near my CamelBak hydration pack to keep it out of the way and cool. It was wirelessly connected to an eyepiece that hung in front of my left eye. The eyepiece, which was no more than a thin, translucent lens, operated as a GPS device, a screen to view videos, a compass, and a rudimentary targeting reticle amongst other things. The computer was synced to my teammates’, so I could intercept data updates such as grid coordinates and targeting data.
In order to send and receive these updates, a long, thin touch screen interface would be attached to my left forearm. It was covered by a protective sheath, which could be pulled off at its Velcro seams so I could view and interact with the screen. It had a small joystick with two buttons, much like a pilot’s flight stick, which acted like a computer mouse. I could extend the joystick into my left hand with a quick flick of my wrist, making the entire set-up fully functional with my left arm alone. Complete with Blue Force Tracking Tech III software, updated only a year ago, I could upload troop positions on a map with a simple touch of the interface, overlay my own map over satellite imagery, or call in airstrikes with a single tap of the finger. The possibilities were almost endless. It was a handy tool, but not one a good soldier relied upon in combat.
My last piece of equipment lay alongside the back of the locker, entombed in a solid protective case. As I placed it on the bench next to me, I accidentally bumped into my companion again. I was about to apologize when I realized she ignored my mistake completely and continued cleaning her own weapon.
I opened the case and pulled out my closest ally and true love, my HK416 Gen II assault rifle, Penelope, as I had named her. Despite being decades old in design, thanks to the veritable hold on military R&D, mine was manufactured only two years ago, with many new bells and whistles to show for it.
Penelope had been the loyal wife of Odysseus in Homer’s The Odyssey, my favorite classical epic. Despite her husband’s absence for twenty years, and dozens of hopeful suitors hoping to take his place on the throne, she remained faithful, waiting patiently until he finally returned. I was a sucker for a good love story, and I hoped that like the woman of myth, my weapon would remain just as loyal.
I reached for a cloth and rubbed its exterior, wiping away the subtlest pieces of dust and lint. “It’s been a while Penelope,” I said to the rifle, “I hope you’ve kept yourself out of trouble while I’ve been away.”
I only hoped Strauss didn’t overhear me. My theory was if you love and respect your equipment like you do a friend, it will in turn treat you with the proper respect and never let you down. Some assumed this kind of thinking meant you were a crazy person, although I had no idea why.
After field stripping and cleaning the rifle, as well as inspecting the ACOG-II Scope, SureFire flashlight/laser, and bi-pod, I finished wiping down the exterior and gently put it back in its case. “Goodnight,” I said quietly, hoping my companion didn’t hear me. “Sleep tight.”
I placed the case back in the locker, gave the entire enclosure another look, tossed my Hawaiian shirt inside, nodded in satisfaction, and shut the cage.
Donning a more appropriate duty jacket from my locker, I announced, “I’m done here. Everything checks out. I’m ready to go when you are.”
Her reply was to barely even glance in my direction as she continued cleaning her rifle’s barrel with a long pipe cleaner brush.
I sighed, unsure what even I could have done to spark such annoyance in her already. Unfortunately, tact was rarely my first option when dealing with pigheaded individuals.
“Excuse me,” I asked, “but are we going to have a problem here? You’ve barely grunted a word in the fifteen minutes we’ve known one another and I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like me, which, you know…” I gave her a Hollywood, teeth sparkling smile, “…is kind of hard to believe.”
She continued to ignore me.
“Look, sweetheart, I’ve had just about as much trouble as I can stand with pretty girls who think they…”
I never got the chance to finish. She was on her feet like a cheetah and staring green-tinted icicles upwards into my skull.
I gulped. It was the only thing I could do as I returned her stare, gazing into her face that was frighteningly more beautiful when displaying such anger.
“So?” I asked, trying to stay brave. “Got something to sa…”
The words were barely out of my mouth when her fist connected with my right eye socket, pitching me backward and into my locker. Stars flashed in my vision and the rest of the world went black when my head slammed against the metal surface. My hand was already flinging upward to my face as my head cleared in the sad hope of staving off the inevitable swelling and darkening.
Speechless, I just stared at her, completely confused and taken aback by her assault. I wanted to yell at her and hit her right back, but it was probably a good thing that I kept my mouth shut and my hands to myself. She might have killed me.
I checked my hand to make sure my face wasn’t bleeding. Thankfully, it came back clean. Risking one last look at my attacker, I turned for the door and beat my retreat from the crazed woman who had hit me for seemingly no reason. She was already back at work cleaning her gun, oblivious to our encounter.
Despite the pain, I couldn’t help but smile.
The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) Page 14
