skull in response.
Yikes.
McDougal clearly pretended to ignore my antics as though he knew something I didn’t.
“Lieutenant Strauss, if you would be so kind as to show Hunter here the armory so he can inspect his gear? Report to the briefing room in one hour.”
“Yes sir,” she responded with a salute.
Without another glance, or word, she turned on her heel, rifle in hand, and marched through a doorway off to the side of the range. I glanced at McDougal whose stone hard expression twitched ever so slightly. I continued staring at him as I passed by in the direction of the armory, still wondering if there was something he knew that I didn’t. Reaching the door, I glanced out at the complex and noticed every member of the team, save McDougal, had gathered near Santino, and were watching me expectantly. It wasn’t until I passed through the armory door that I heard the soft drone of laughter.
And I had no idea why.
***
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, but only using what was appropriate for individual missions. Despite the weapon porn on display in such extravagance, I couldn’t help but notice the dark haired beauty, bent at the waist as she duteously cleaned her rifle, her rather supple and round backside presented for my full inspection.
I couldn’t help but stare, my head lulling 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 towards 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.
Great, not only is she stone cold and mean, but also ambiguously flirty
Now it really felt like I was back in college.
I forced myself to clear my head with a quick move to crack the kinks out of my neck, 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, 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 lens, rifle magazines, radio and throat microphone, night vision goggles, mobile PC, combat knife, medical kit, glow sticks, zip ties, combat notebook, pen, Escape amp; 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 that were scattered around the stomach area, chest, sides, and back.
The back of my rig held a CamelBak water filtration device that made hydration far more convenient than a canteen. Alongside it was a small computer cleverly tucked away near the CamelBak to keep it out of the way and cool. It was wirelessly connected to an eye piece that hung in front of my left eye. The eye piece, 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 reticule amongst other things. The computer was synced to my teammates’, so I could intercept data updates from them, such as grid coordinates and targeting data.
In order to send and receive these updates, a thin, long 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 that I could view and interact with the screen. It had a small, joystick, which had a directional stick and two buttons. It 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 and function just as well as the touch screen. 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 once again. I was about to apologize when I realized she ignored my mistake 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 amp;D, mine was manufactured only two years ago with many new bells and whistles.
Penelope had been the loyal wife of Odysseus in Homer’s The Odyssey, my favorite 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.
The weapon, based originally on the design of the M4A1 carbine, had been a common sight amongst the American military for the past half century. It was always a favorite, due to its ability for customization, reliability, stopping power, and ease of use. Few M4s and other variations of said gun, such as the HK416, looked the same in the hands of U.S. Special Forces, as each carried a unique mark of its owner.
I reached for a cloth and began rubbing the exterior, wiping away the subtlest pieces of dust and lint. “It’s been awhile Penelope,” I said to the gun, “I hope you’ve kept yourself out of trouble while I’ve been away.”
I only hoped Helena didn’t overhear me. My theory was that if you love and respect your equipment like you do a person, it will in turn treat you with the proper respect and never let you down. Although, some inferred it to mean 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 BDU top 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.
What was her problem anyway? Even I couldn’t have done anything to offend her yet. I guess it wasn’t very polite to nearly fall on her, but she had to have known that was an accident. I couldn’t really believe that her silence was actually starting to annoy me, but it was. I rarely let little things like that bother me.
I sighed. It was always the pretty ones.
“Excuse me, but are we going to have a problem here? You’ve barely grunted a word to me, 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 hard to believe.”
She continued to ignore me.
I was really getting annoyed now.
“Look, sweet cakes. I’ve had just about as much trouble as I can stand with pretty girls in positions where
