[b]Mbandaka, Congo[/b]

The shadow of the palm was an oasis of relief from the beating sun of mid-day. Like so many without much to do Caramel had found himself drawn to to the shade of the thick leafy fronds. Africa it felt was one of the few places with any significant amount of green in the world. Even outside of the Panama Zone in his home-land the world felt grayer. A little dead. Though gazing up at the rich vibrant green of the leafy fronds Caramel wondered about this PTSD thing, or what the doctor had said. Was this simply an effect of Central America?

The airfield they called a base was bustling with its usual activity. The whine of an engine over head heralded a large cargo airplane sweeping down for the dirt-track runway. Though Mbandaka was connected to Kinshasha through river and rail the economic benefits of transport in the Congo still greatly favored air travel. The jungle was thick and difficult to tame, and it wasn't unusual for something to go awry and stall traffic for miles. It certainly didn't help that none of the first-world, post-world drifters that made up this patchwork ASN network critically observed the Congolese for being poor drivers.

But Caramel couldn't blame them. For the most part the people as a whole seemed new to driving. Many people in the far-flung – yet major – urban centers of the Congo were first-time drivers.

And the trains seemed to have replaced Congolese Air as being the least desirable way to travel, even if the national air service was unanimously banned across the western world.

The large cargo carrier drifted down from the air to touch down on the tarmac. A cloud of dust mixed with the whipping hot exhaust that bellowed out from the heavy meaty turbines of the aircraft. The gray surface gleamed in the mid-day sun. A golden logo of the globe wrapped by arrows and olive branches was printed boldly on its tail fins. The symbol of the ASN. He had heard some suggest that some higher units used depressed skull with the shape of some ancient continent pressed into its side, but he had trouble believing that. He had never seen that one.

The laborious aircraft taxied down the runway. The dust cloud that followed it had died away, and now it was only it as it moved to blot out the complex behind it. The size of the airplane was truly magnificent to behold, and the bloated wide structure of its hull was a wonder it could fly. But with engines like it had, it apparently could. To take the air like some awkward, fat-headed bumblebee.

Caramel sat and watched in the shade of that raffia palm as the plane came to an eventual stop, lowering its rear gates to allow access for the ground crews as they thundered about with their forklifts. Bustling around the aircraft like bees in attendance to their queen. Unloading pallets of gear and supplies. Food stuffs and consumer gear.

It was funny, and every time it came around the operative laughed a little. Armee sans Nations. Part private military contractor, part Fed-ex.

“So that's where you went.” a raised voice said from behind. The suddenness of the address made Caramel jump, instinctively jumping to his feet and turning to salute.

But when he turned he froze awkwardly. Caught somewhere in that cold limbo between attention and at ease. His breath was caught somewhere on his tongue, leaking out in only a guttural and dumbfounded, “Uhh...”

Big Mac smiled as he walked towards him. His heavy arms wrapped around behind his back as he laughed. “God, I didn't think I had that much rank.” he laughed. His laugh was as low and heavy as would be imagined by a man built so heavy as he.

“Oh, I thought someone else had come...” Caramel murmured lamely. The unsettled awkwardness of his manner only made Big Mac laugh more. A deep guttural chuckle, complimented with a wide smile.

“Well settle down.” he said, walking to him, “I was just asked to do a regular check up on everyone. Was told you were out here. Just checking to see if you hadn't gone AWOL. Or worse.”

“Worse. How worse?” Caramel asked.

“I've only heard stories. Ain't seen it myself. I think I'm lucky for it.” he nodded confidently, “I think I saw quite enough bullshit for my tastes.”

“Ah, I see...” Caramel stammered, walking back to the side of the palm.

“You doing OK?” Big Mac asked.

“I suppose I am.” Caramel replied uncomfortable, “Just thinking.”

“Anything that'd be safe to know, for both our sakes?”

“Well... No, not really. Though I guess...” Caramel said with a nervous laugh, “Just. Stuff. Killing... Time. Palms. Airplanes.”

“Mhmm... Palms and airplanes.” Big Mac chuckled, “Both damn important here. If I must say.

“You haven't been much into the villages I take it?” he asked.

“Can't say I have.”

Big Mac nodded, walking over to the side of the young palm. He placed a heavy hand on its side, “Folks out in the country here really like to use this shit for building stuff.” he said, rubbing his hand along its darkened bark, “Shit, they drink the syrup that comes out of this like booze. I don't think there's anything about these trees they can't do.”

“Huh, interesting.” Caramel said, feigning a deep interest.

“I know your full of shit.” Big Mac laughed, “Thinking about The War?” the soldier asked.

Caramel sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so.” he said distantly, “A bit.”

“I see.” acknowledged Big Mac, “Sometimes I don't go long without having to think about it. Shit, I may not wake up in sweats and shit, you know, but it does come back around. Like a silly little reminder. I don't feel too good about it sometimes, but not much you can do about that, you know.”

“Yeah, I know...” Caramel said fidgeting. Nervously biting his lip as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Big Mac leaned back off the tree and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his uniform. “I guess if you're alright then, and we know where to look for you...” he started.

“Can I ask you something?” Caramel asked.

Big Mac raised his brow, tilting his head and frowning inquisitively. A genuine feeling of curiosity washed his face and he leaned in close to his coworker. “Yea, sure. Shoot.” he invited.

“How, how was The War for you?” Caramel asked.

“The War!” Big Mac exclaimed, “So yea, you're really thinking about it.” he nodded, “Well, for a kid from the south-side of Chicago, I guess it was completely different than what I expected. Given yes, I saw a lot of crazy shit in New City. But war was a different sort of shit all together.”

“I- I think we all thought that. Yeah.” Caramel said, shifting.

“Of all the places I figured to go, I ended up in Lebanon.” he laughed, “Had some hardcore hadjis to fight back for a while. Mostly break up fights and prevent spill over into Isreal. I thought going in I'd do a tour, get the fuck out, and collect benefits and get my ass out of The Yards before it was too late. Move out of the city you know, head a bit more south. Get out to fucking Bloomington or something.”

He shook his head, “But me and my friends, we kept going back. At least Washington got tired and withdrew.

“I swear they really fucked up doing that. You don't need to read real deep into what happened. You know we didn't succeed in anything! My folks back home compared it to how we did Iraq. Like Hell 'mission accomplished'. You know how many died when we left?”

“A lot?” Caramel said, daring the question carefully.

“Too many.” Big Mac sighed. Caramel couldn't say he knew that level of dissatisfaction, he had been in till the end. And lived to tell the tale, for what it was worth.

“On my... Last tour there.” Big Mac continued, “I was driving along the coast to reinforce a position at some fishing village against some crazy ass motherfuckers. It was me and some maybe twenty-other vehicles along some dusty paved road heading south. I was in the middle, and I didn't expect anything to happen, not like it did. But as we drove along we must have gone passed some bomb or something, an IED. Because all of the sudden I feel myself thrown to the side against my restraints, the side of my face feels like it's burning and people are shouting and screaming.

“And my humvee flips. You ever been in a car accident?” he asked.

“No, no I haven't.” Caramel said. In reality, he had hardly been in a car. Even at war he and his unit had walked to many of their objectives.

“Well, it's damn scary.” continued Big Mac, shaking his head, “And I don't know if the rest of my crew is dead or not, and I can't see. I'm shitting myself thinking I've gone blind. Even more so I can smell smoke and I swear I was going to be cooked.

“And I tell you brother, I was not a religious man before. But in that moment I decided I needed God – any God – more than anything. But irregardless of any influence, I was pulled out and I was saved. I haven't turned my back sense.”

“So you were OK?” Caramel asked.

Big Mac's mouth widened as he laughed, “I ain't becoming a beauty king and fucking time soon.” he laughed, pointing to his face, “But yes. I got out OK. As it turns out blood was just getting into my eyes. Stinging like a mother fucker.

“But in all the duty I did running convoy and larger support roles, that was the scariest and closest I got. Me and a lot of people. Had nightmares for a while. Worse when we pulled out because I couldn't get back in there and fight a good fight. The 'Good Fight' you know? Worse I had to keep the televisions off, and the default home page on my computer was a blank page for about a year.”

“I'm sorry...” Caramel responded softly.

“It ain't shit brother, don't worry.” he smiled, “We all overcome.”

“We do...” Caramel said. But it felt wrong for him to say it... So to keep himself at some sort of peace, he asked: “So how'd you come to be here?”

“Just no work to do at home.” Big Mac shrugged, “Shit, it's either I sell crack-cocaine and get killed by a black brother or I flip burgers. I tried that college thing, but I couldn't find anyone to hire me, even as those damn reds took office. And it didn't feel right to take money from benefits from a bunch of fat shits in Washington for the shitty job they asked me to do.

“So, well, before the war really ended I enlisted into the PMC world. Contacted the ASN headquarters in America and got an application in. Found myself in here. And here we are.”

He held out his arms, “And here we are.” he repeated. “What do you think?”

“I think you're doing well...” Caramel complimented.

“I feel it too.” he smiled, “And hey, you're doing good too, brother. Keep it real. You know?”