When U.S. Army Corporal Allison Orlandi parachuted into Romeo Sector -- twelve miles behind enemy lines in southeastern Belarus -- things had been seriously different. First, there had actually been a definitive enemy line … as well as a definitive enemy … and a goal of what to do behind those lines to that enemy.
Now, though, nine weeks later, Allison had no idea what the fuck was going on here. The American troops had been sent in to shore up Ukrainian forces, which themselves had been sent in to support Belarussian forces after a 12,000 man Russian Division supported by heavy armor invaded the former Soviet State that the Russians wanted once again.
But during her time here, the international political picture had changed again and again like an Etch-A-Sketch in the hands of a five year old drinking Starbucks. First, Belarus had collapsed in Civil War, with Pro- and Anti-Russian forces now battling one another; then Russia had suffered a coup, and the Division in Belarus found itself without support from Moscow; The Ukraine, seeing an opportunity, struck targets inside Russia in direct conflict with an agreement they had with the United States, which had provided its air force with advanced jets and helicopters, and the US-Ukrainian alliance was in jeopardy.
Last but certainly not least -- considering it was occurring in and to Allison's own country -- the political situation in the U.S. was on the precipice. The President had been successfully impeached, tried, and removed from office; the Vice President and Secretary of State -- both also indicted -- had each resigned during the six year long investigation and were yet to be replaced by confirmation of the otherwise occupied Senate; and just eight days after the Speaker of the House died of a heart attack, the President pro tempore of the Senate was killed in a car crash during a late summer hurricane that had devastated the Northern Virginia coastline and killed thousands.
The succession of the Presidency of the United States of America was in turmoil, with the next man in line to the Oval Office -- the Secretary of the Treasury -- filling the headlines of the network news and cover pages of the tabloids both for his recently discovered racist and sexist views. Protests, riots, and outright street battles were exploding across the country 5,000 miles from where Allison was doing her best to serve it.
She lifted her rifle toward movement in the dark but then heard the desired code word. She called just loud enough for the approaching man to know it was safe to continue. Mark Tipton, also a corporal, came over to flop down in the dirt next to her and pick through the box of food items they'd pillaged from a nearby village that unknown forces had bombed into near oblivion.
"We're moving out," he said as he opened a dented but still sealed can of Vienna Sausages with a French language label. "Oh-two-thirty. Grab what you can carry and--"
"We got orders?" Allison asked with surprise. To the best of her knowledge, they'd been out of radio contact with Command for nearly a week. "Where are they sending us?"
"No orders," Mark told her as he eagerly swallowed one little sausage, then stuffed a second one into his mouth with dirty fingers. "We're just going. Connors, Lee, Nguyen, Howard … Griffith is thinking about it … so's Peters."
Allison stared at him with surprise for a moment. "We were told to remain here until--"
With a firm, almost angry tone, Mark argued, "We're outta comms. We're outta ammo. We're outta time."
"But without orders--"
"Orders from who?" he snapped. "We don't even know who's in charge back home. Rumor is the General resigned in protest."
"Rumor," Allison said dismissively.
"And the Task Force Commander, the one they just put in place two days ago," he went on, chomping on another sausage. "They say he's being pulled already … say he was put here for political reasons, by the fucking Prez … former Prez. They say he's sitting in the basement of an office building in Odessa under house arrest while they figure out what to do with him … and us! Odessa. Do you know where the fuck Odessa is...? It ain't here!"
Sticking his fingers down into the little can, Mark pulled out the remaining sausages and stuffed them all into his mouth. He tossed the can and wiped his dirty fingers on his equally dirty uniform, stood, and looked down into Allison's face. Shoving the meat into one cheek with his tongue, he told her, "Oh-two-thirty. Be at the south end of the trench … or we leave without you."
He turned and was gone into the dark once again.
Allison sat there alone for more than an hour, which felt like ten. She knew it wasn't safe to stay here, particularly if half of what remained of the platoon was bugging out. On the other hand, she'd seen with her own eyes troops summarily executed for deserting the lines.
She checked her watch: oh-two-ten; twenty minutes to both make a decision and reach the south end of the Platoon's area of control. Plenty of time; all she had to do was make a decision.
But then the decision was made for her as an enemy mortar bombardment suddenly lit up the night. Allison rushed for the fortified basement of the house that had once been Command and Control for Romeo Sector but was now little more than a hole in the ground hidden by debris. She reached it just as the world immediately around her became hell on Earth.
The bombardment continued, with a shell landing every six or seven seconds for nearly two hours. Allison recognized the distinct sound of the mortar shells, but -- as they were used by both Russian and Ukrainian forces -- she couldn't know who was pounding the area.
When the shelling ended, Allison heard what she'd expected to follow: troops and tanks -- Russian, as they were the only armor in the area -- pushing through Romeo Sector. Then, another familiar sound began to shake her world: artillery, definitively American, coming from positions twenty miles to the west. This wasn't a case of accidental friendly fire, though; Command knew full well that Romeo had belonged to American troops at the beginning of the night. They simply didn't care; what was the loss of a couple of disintegrating Platoons compared to holding an entire Sector?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Allison had fallen asleep sometime after the sound of bombardment and tank movements ended. She dug her way out of the shelter through a partially blocked hole in the wall and found herself in a hellish scene. There wasn't a building left standing; bodies littered the landscape; and it seemed to Allison that she was the only thing left alive for as far as the eye could see.
But after wandering cautiously west for an hour or so -- toward what she hoped was American held territory -- she finally did find someone alive. The soldier had at first appeared dead, but as she neared she found him still breathing. A darker spot on his uniform indicated where he was still losing blood. She removed his weapon from where it lay across his lap, then confiscated his side arm. She opened his coat to see the wound; a bullet or piece of shrapnel had passed through his side, but he'd stemmed the blood flow enough to stay alive.
Allison checked his uniform for insignia and other identification but found none; local militia or foreign contractor maybe? Slinging her weapon, Allison grabbed the man by his arms and dragged him twenty feet to a shaded spot under a collapsed building wall. It seemed pretty secure for the moment, so long as someone didn't again begin raining explosive shells down upon them. Out of an overabundance of caution, she used a roll of paracord to tie one of the man's hands and one of his feet to pieces of rebar emerging from the wall. Then, stripping her own gear off and opening her first aid kit, she set about cleaning up the man's wounds.
Now, though, nine weeks later, Allison had no idea what the fuck was going on here. The American troops had been sent in to shore up Ukrainian forces, which themselves had been sent in to support Belarussian forces after a 12,000 man Russian Division supported by heavy armor invaded the former Soviet State that the Russians wanted once again.
But during her time here, the international political picture had changed again and again like an Etch-A-Sketch in the hands of a five year old drinking Starbucks. First, Belarus had collapsed in Civil War, with Pro- and Anti-Russian forces now battling one another; then Russia had suffered a coup, and the Division in Belarus found itself without support from Moscow; The Ukraine, seeing an opportunity, struck targets inside Russia in direct conflict with an agreement they had with the United States, which had provided its air force with advanced jets and helicopters, and the US-Ukrainian alliance was in jeopardy.
Last but certainly not least -- considering it was occurring in and to Allison's own country -- the political situation in the U.S. was on the precipice. The President had been successfully impeached, tried, and removed from office; the Vice President and Secretary of State -- both also indicted -- had each resigned during the six year long investigation and were yet to be replaced by confirmation of the otherwise occupied Senate; and just eight days after the Speaker of the House died of a heart attack, the President pro tempore of the Senate was killed in a car crash during a late summer hurricane that had devastated the Northern Virginia coastline and killed thousands.
The succession of the Presidency of the United States of America was in turmoil, with the next man in line to the Oval Office -- the Secretary of the Treasury -- filling the headlines of the network news and cover pages of the tabloids both for his recently discovered racist and sexist views. Protests, riots, and outright street battles were exploding across the country 5,000 miles from where Allison was doing her best to serve it.
She lifted her rifle toward movement in the dark but then heard the desired code word. She called just loud enough for the approaching man to know it was safe to continue. Mark Tipton, also a corporal, came over to flop down in the dirt next to her and pick through the box of food items they'd pillaged from a nearby village that unknown forces had bombed into near oblivion.
"We're moving out," he said as he opened a dented but still sealed can of Vienna Sausages with a French language label. "Oh-two-thirty. Grab what you can carry and--"
"We got orders?" Allison asked with surprise. To the best of her knowledge, they'd been out of radio contact with Command for nearly a week. "Where are they sending us?"
"No orders," Mark told her as he eagerly swallowed one little sausage, then stuffed a second one into his mouth with dirty fingers. "We're just going. Connors, Lee, Nguyen, Howard … Griffith is thinking about it … so's Peters."
Allison stared at him with surprise for a moment. "We were told to remain here until--"
With a firm, almost angry tone, Mark argued, "We're outta comms. We're outta ammo. We're outta time."
"But without orders--"
"Orders from who?" he snapped. "We don't even know who's in charge back home. Rumor is the General resigned in protest."
"Rumor," Allison said dismissively.
"And the Task Force Commander, the one they just put in place two days ago," he went on, chomping on another sausage. "They say he's being pulled already … say he was put here for political reasons, by the fucking Prez … former Prez. They say he's sitting in the basement of an office building in Odessa under house arrest while they figure out what to do with him … and us! Odessa. Do you know where the fuck Odessa is...? It ain't here!"
Sticking his fingers down into the little can, Mark pulled out the remaining sausages and stuffed them all into his mouth. He tossed the can and wiped his dirty fingers on his equally dirty uniform, stood, and looked down into Allison's face. Shoving the meat into one cheek with his tongue, he told her, "Oh-two-thirty. Be at the south end of the trench … or we leave without you."
He turned and was gone into the dark once again.
Allison sat there alone for more than an hour, which felt like ten. She knew it wasn't safe to stay here, particularly if half of what remained of the platoon was bugging out. On the other hand, she'd seen with her own eyes troops summarily executed for deserting the lines.
She checked her watch: oh-two-ten; twenty minutes to both make a decision and reach the south end of the Platoon's area of control. Plenty of time; all she had to do was make a decision.
But then the decision was made for her as an enemy mortar bombardment suddenly lit up the night. Allison rushed for the fortified basement of the house that had once been Command and Control for Romeo Sector but was now little more than a hole in the ground hidden by debris. She reached it just as the world immediately around her became hell on Earth.
The bombardment continued, with a shell landing every six or seven seconds for nearly two hours. Allison recognized the distinct sound of the mortar shells, but -- as they were used by both Russian and Ukrainian forces -- she couldn't know who was pounding the area.
When the shelling ended, Allison heard what she'd expected to follow: troops and tanks -- Russian, as they were the only armor in the area -- pushing through Romeo Sector. Then, another familiar sound began to shake her world: artillery, definitively American, coming from positions twenty miles to the west. This wasn't a case of accidental friendly fire, though; Command knew full well that Romeo had belonged to American troops at the beginning of the night. They simply didn't care; what was the loss of a couple of disintegrating Platoons compared to holding an entire Sector?
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Allison had fallen asleep sometime after the sound of bombardment and tank movements ended. She dug her way out of the shelter through a partially blocked hole in the wall and found herself in a hellish scene. There wasn't a building left standing; bodies littered the landscape; and it seemed to Allison that she was the only thing left alive for as far as the eye could see.
But after wandering cautiously west for an hour or so -- toward what she hoped was American held territory -- she finally did find someone alive. The soldier had at first appeared dead, but as she neared she found him still breathing. A darker spot on his uniform indicated where he was still losing blood. She removed his weapon from where it lay across his lap, then confiscated his side arm. She opened his coat to see the wound; a bullet or piece of shrapnel had passed through his side, but he'd stemmed the blood flow enough to stay alive.
Allison checked his uniform for insignia and other identification but found none; local militia or foreign contractor maybe? Slinging her weapon, Allison grabbed the man by his arms and dragged him twenty feet to a shaded spot under a collapsed building wall. It seemed pretty secure for the moment, so long as someone didn't again begin raining explosive shells down upon them. Out of an overabundance of caution, she used a roll of paracord to tie one of the man's hands and one of his feet to pieces of rebar emerging from the wall. Then, stripping her own gear off and opening her first aid kit, she set about cleaning up the man's wounds.