Dichotomy

He stood at the edge of the field, his back to the broken bodies and wreckage, gazing into the distance at the cloud of dust that represented a horror. The remains of an army were running away, routed. An army of foul, dark things, things his mother used to scare him with when he had been a bad child. Yet he had lived most of his life without seeing any of them, never being sure what was real and what was spun from whole cloth by elders old and bitter enough to want to see young children frightened and cowed. That was until six months ago, when every childhood nightmare accompanied by things too horrible to be imagined by even the bitterest of the elders launched themselves into the kingdoms of men. Most were surprised and whole kingdoms ceased to exist. A few were prepared and began to mobilize an opposition to the blight. This victory, another in a string, was even now being celebrated by the men and women of the allied army.

   His clothes, once expensive and fine were covered in blood, none of it his. Hours spent tending to those who could be saved had left him exhausted. Looking into the faces of those that were beyond his skills left a sour taint of hopelessness on his soul.

   While he tried to block out the cheers and songs of those that would fight again, he still recognized that the men and women who stood with the light needed the celebration, and more than that they had earned it. But the sight of those men and women who would not join in the celebration this day or indeed any other day on this earth was too much on his mind to permit him to share their happiness. Even at another great blow to an enemy that had destroyed most of what was normal and real in the kingdoms of men.

   He knew every life taken this day went because it was needed. He would gladly give his own if it advanced their cause. Such was his belief in what they were doing that he would have ordered every last man and woman in the allied armies to their deaths if it meant victory for the forces of light. He knew all that was at stake.

   However, for all his faith, he could never shake the thought of the human cost. The broken bodies behind him were not just soldiers. They were husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Every one of them left a gap in the lives of others. A child crying for a parent never to be seen again. A love that withered before it bloomed. A great work of art never to be created. The list goes on and on.

   At times like this his thoughts turn to a quote he learned years before, but whose meaning he was not prepared to understand until now:

   "Every sword that is forged, every warship launched, every arrow fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending gold alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its wizards, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron."*

   Our team was preparing to go in fast and hard. These terrorist camps were usually easy targets to crack. A thin, poorly disciplined guard force at the perimeter quickly gave way to indolent zealots unprepared for any targets that were more aggressive that your average pepperpot at a Harrods sale. The team was small, but I enjoyed working with these SAS boys, they were a hard lot and knew their business. I could trust them at my back, a thing I don't say lightly.

   Stephen and I kill two guards with a silenced pistol on the way in. We are all under orders to keep to silenced weapons or knives until the first shots rang out or until the "Red, Red, Red" radio call went out. Even if these assholes weren't much of a challenge there isn't much sense in giving them any extra chances to get lucky.

   The team is spreading through the camp now, each pair going directly to their assigned buildings. I could hear the soft cough of a silenced 9mm followed closely by the thud of a body hitting the ground. Things can't stay quiet much longer.

   Stephen and I go straight to the building that was the camp HQ and Commandant's quarters. The targets in here are going to be more dangerous than the rest of this rabble. Stephen covers the front door leading into the HQ offices; I take the back leading into the living quarters. It's a toss up who will hit more resistance, but if we stay together we will just be in each other's way. Our styles are just too different; Stephen is all about finesse, I feel there is no overkill, there is only "open fire" and "time to reload."

   As I get to the back door, my radio crackles to life in my ear and it feels like a bucket of adrenaline is being dumped into my system. I hear the radio call we have been waiting for… "Re…

   I kick in the door.

   d…R….

   As the door flies inward it is quickly followed by three quick fuse grenades bundled together, two frags and a flash bang just for variety.

   ed…R

   I duck back out as the doorway splinters from AK-47 fire.

   ed."

   All three grenades go off nearly together; as the blast finishes its work I go through the door with a Desert Eagle in each hand, looking for targets. There are four targets in what I can see is setup as an entry room; it is setup with couches and coffee tables like a rural courting parlor. Two of the targets are down. The one closest to the grenades looks permanent. Two more are starting to point things at me in slow motion. Some part of my mind shuts down. I am only a reacting machine at this point with a simple set of parameters. I quickly take out the two gun-wielding thugs before they get a shot off. Two head shots each. I guess part of Stephen has rubbed off on me. I quickly shoot both of the prone targets twice in the head. Today's parameters don't involve anyone from the other side living.

   Into the next room, I find what looks to be the Commandant's bedroom.

   Empty… Three doors… left, right and straight ahead.

   From the intel we have the left is a closet, full walk-in, crammed with Italian suits. Why the briefing office though the make of the suits was important I don't know.

   The right is a bathroom

   Straight ahead is the back way to the Commandant's office.

   I know I need to clear the closet and office before I can go forward.

   I'm past thinking and planning. I just move. I shoot the two hinges and the doorknob off the closet door as I move towards it at a run. When I finally hit the door full on it doesn't have much structure left, I go right through it and roll….

   Empty.

   I turn and start to move back into the bedroom. As I exit the closet I drop two fragmentation grenades behind me just in case I missed something or someone.

   I move away from the closet door and crouch down behind the bed. I let the grenades go off as I reload the two Desert Eagles and watch the bathroom door.

   Nothing is moving. I take a moment to listen. I can hear some pistol and small arms fire from the other end of the building. It sounds like Stephen is having a more lively time of it than I am. I knew I should have taken that end of the building.

   I'm reloaded just as the grenades go off. I start moving towards the bathroom. Same deal. Shoot the hard points and roll through what's left of the door.

   As I land in a crouch I realize I have come too far into the room. There is a bathtub behind me and to the left now. As I pivot cover that area, something hard comes down on my left arm, bouncing off the composite armor I'm wearing. As I finish my turn and raise my guns I see an old man. He is standing in the shower, naked, dripping wet and holding the shower curtain rod like a club. He is balding and pot bellied. In a flash I think he looks a lot like an uncle of mine. My uncle is a kindly old man that took me hunting and fishing when I was a boy.

   Of course he isn't my uncle. He's a target.

   I shoot him twice in the head. Twice more in the chest.

   I clear the rest of the bathroom… empty. I take a last look at the certainly dead terrorist commandant lying in a rather undignified heap. I drop a WP grenade on his chest and walk back into the bedroom. People think I am too free with the grenades, that I like the explosions. Truth is I just like to be sure. When it comes to people like this I don't want to meet them a second time.

   As I head towards the last door Stephen bursts through. Just at that point the grenade in the bathroom explodes. Stephen gives me that look. Like he just caught his sister kissing one of the hired help behind the mansion. You know the one.

   I shrug. It's a familiar exchange. One we are both comfortable with.

   I say to Stephen and over the radio at the same time. "Main target eliminated. We can begin extraction as soon as all buildings are cleared."

   As Stephen and I head for the perimeter and the extraction point I can already feel my pulse begin to slow and all those sensations I can only get in combat draining away.

   I know some day I will probably die doing this, but since it's the only time I'm alive, I don't see myself ever stopping.

   Besides like we used to say when I was stationed in Texas "They needed killin'."

* Thanks go to Dwight Eisenhower for the quote at the end of the first story. Modified of course to fit the world. Here is the quote in its original form. Given its source I think it's a pretty amazing quote and a tribute to the man who said it.

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron." ~Dwight D. Eisenhower, April 16, 1953

Happy Birthday Alex… Christ, how did we get so old?

Here is my attempt at some gaming stories, not so short as I originally expected. I think you will recognize the characters involved.

Hope they entertain.

-Joe