Chapter Two
"Atten-SHUN!" the 1st Platoon Sergeant barked.
Zeb snapped to attention along with the rest of Zeta Company, feet together, arms at sides, eyes forward.
They were arrayed on the landing platform, 174 strong, four platoons of 42 soldiers each, plus Company Command. As Raven Platoon-4th Squad’s leader, Zeb stood in the front row, the rest of his nine soldier squad in a column formation behind him. The other squad, platoon, and company leaders stretched to either side, with their units behind each of them.
A general emerged from a bulky black aircraft. It’s matte finish was pockmarked by angular pods and protrusions that housed counter-surveillance, anti-EM hardware. A real VIP job, built for stealth and speed. The General, flanked by a posse of asskissers, strode toward them. He carried himself tall and proud like the bulk of his upper body hadn't already spread downward to his waistline. Zeb didn’t know who he was, but he had plenty of stars on his uniform, some former professional badass who probably spent his days in meeting rooms now, slapping dicks with other bigshots over appropriations bills and weapon systems budgets.
"Parade--" the Platoon Sergeant began and Zeb shifted his weight to his right foot. "--Rest," the Sergeant finished the command and Zeb slid his left foot to the side, clasping his hands behind his back in a perfect stance.
The general walked first left, then right, making a show of looking over the first row. He wrinkled his nose like he wasn’t so happy about something. Zeb had seen that look plenty from commanding officers, that practiced disdain, playing up their authority over you. But maybe it was real today, that face like something didn’t smell quite right.
Their new dress uniforms had shown up in the barracks only that morning, sharp-looking black with maroon trim. Under the fitted pants and high-collared jackets, they also wore a thick base layer that was like a SCUBA wetsuit, complete with booties and gloves, but with an impermeable outer surface. Inside this undersuit, activated charcoal trapped and neutralized their stench. These would be part of their standard loadout from now on, so that downwind bogies, guard animals, or even pets and livestock wouldn’t smell them coming from a proverbial mile away.
They also had special helmets to filter their exhaled breath, but for this command review all they wore on their heads were black berets with the company insignia: the Greek letter zeta ζ, representing a weapon or tool, pierced by a dagger.
Zeb could still smell his own rank breath and the little bit of exposed skin, but compared to his full, unadulterated stank, the remaining odor was like a spring breeze. But the general probably hadn't been near a real latrine in decades, and had a look like he was standing in front of one right now. Zeb almost felt bad for the old guy.
The general stopped front and center, facing them. "We are at war," he said.
No shit, Zeb thought, but kept his face impassive, eyes locked directly ahead.
"Well, that's goddamned obvious, y'all are thinking. Tell me something I don't know. Here's another out-of-touch old fart, flown in to tell us some tired fairy tale from Fallujah or Kamdesh, try to prove he's one of us."
Zeb thought, Points for knowing your audience.
"Then the same old shit about terrible enemies out to destroy our beloved country, who hate us because we're free, who hate our religion, the American way of life. Fight the good fight, blah blah blah."
The general paused, scanned the company of soldiers again before continuing, "All of that's true. Our fight against the Bolivarian socialists is still going on, been going on too long. They're poisoning our people, stealing our science, disrupting our markets. Making a joke of our border security. We’ll keep fighting that war."
Tomorrow, the entire company would begin its first full-scale operation from this new forward operating base. The cluster of converted oil rigs stood in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, an ideal location to launch tactical operations against targets across Central and South America. This formal ceremony with the General was typical, just another dog and pony show to sit (or stand) through before they'd let them get on with their jobs, which was soldiering, plain and simple. Or that's how it used to be. Before. Not that Zeb could really remember much from before. He was mostly okay with that.
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A huge number of support staff would go with them--the teams of scientists and medics who were always crawling up their asses, plus the engineers and logistics & supply people who mostly stayed out of sight. They pretty much all seemed like assholes to Zeb. But to be fair, it was a crap assignment for them, getting sent out to the middle of the ocean with a bunch of freaks. They had families, friends, ya know, actual lives, stuff the Zetas didn't even have the luxury (or burden) of remembering, let alone worrying about.
Zeb brought his attention back to the general, who was still yammering on. "Hell, we've been in some war just like this one, or close enough to it, since we've been a goddamn country. Never been a shortage of people ready and willing to take us down. And we have to win this, make no mistake.
"But that's not the war I'm here to tell you about. There's another conflict going on and it's right inside the hearts and minds of every real American. It's a war over a question: do we still have what it takes? Are we still good enough? Are we still great? Lots of people, both inside and out, saying our best days are behind us. Look at the Chinese, they say. Or the South Americans. Even our friends in Russia. They're all on top now or will be soon. That's the future, they say."
Zeb wondered about that they, who was really saying that stuff. Politicians? The media? Regular people? Zeb didn't do politics. Didn't have the interest or the time, what with the constant training, not to mention the endless medical and psych exams. Even if he'd wanted to talk politics, he didn't know any other people; his entire world was his fellow soldiers, mostly dumbshits, and the project staff who always stayed hidden inside their biohazard suits, barely interacting with the Zetas.
How long was this old guy going going to continue? Zeb still had a lot to do before tomorrow. Things to drill into the empty skulls of his squad.
The general started to get amped up. "What I say to that defeatism is bullshit. BULLSHIT. The USA is still the #1 greatest military force on this planet. That's the only ranking that counts. We will show them it's still true. Zeta Company will show them. You're gonna turn this thing around for us. It's why we made you and trained you into the greatest fighting unit in the history of war.
"I'm not here to tell you that I'm one of you. Just the opposite. I don't know, can't know, what it's like to stand in your boots. Because you are the first of your kind."
The general moved again, scanning the faces of the soldiers in the front line. "They always say the bravest soldier is the one who faces death for their country. The ultimate sacrifice. I would've agreed with that before. But Zeta Company has taken that truth and torn its head off and shit down its goddamn neck. Because you have stared the Grim Reaper right in his bony face and then shoved him right out of the way. There's not been soldiers as brave since the first caveman picked up a bone to clobber some other ugly bastard over his head.
"What does it feel like, to stand on the other side? I can't know what it's like. But I know that what you've done, your sacrifice beyond sacrifice, is so awesome that it scares me. I am about to shit my pants right here, and we're on the same side. Imagine what our enemies will do. They will know fear, because you have no fear to show them.
"You're gonna drive these Bolie bastards back. You're gonna hunt them down. You're gonna destroy them, no matter where they run and hide. And every asshole out there tearing down our beautiful country, they're gonna know this: even if you don't love us, you better fear us. Every American who's worried that we're finished, they're gonna know that even two and half centuries into this thing, we are just getting started. Every single one of them, friend and foe, is gonna see that we can do anything, will do anything to win. We're gonna win this war, both outside our borders and in the heart of America. Zeta Company will make that happen.”
The general returned to face the center of the company, paused, looked around, then yelled, "Hooah!"
Zeb answered despite himself, despite the General's neck-deep river of bullshit, his voice merging with the chorus of shouts around him, "Hooah!"
Zeb was smart enough, still smart enough, even after everything, to see through the patriotic hot air, the bald-faced appeals to honor and courage, but something still stirred in him when the right words were said, the proper rituals observed. Was it the constant psych conditioning? Or simply that this was his life, had probably been his life for so many years now, that he didn’t know anything else? It occurred to Zeb, that though he didn’t remember much from before, despite everything else about him being different now, this part of him was probably still the same. He was still a soldier, and a good one.
The general brought his feet together sharply with his hands at his sides.
"Atten-SHUN!" the Platoon Sergeant quickly yelled and the entire company moved back to attention.
The General snapped his arm upward in a crisp salute. With a single, rapid motion, Zeb and the soldiers returned his salute, their stiff dress uniforms crackling like thunder.
