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Poker Night Keeper: Doug Iannelli Saturday, December 20th, 1997. 1932 hours . . . |
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| Keeper: | You stand alone, peering into the area that played host to the latest in a series of bizarre and inexplicable events that have plagued you this day. Aside from the steady drip emanating from the shower stalls and the baleful moan of the wind outside, the only sound you perceive is the soft scratch of your booted footfalls on the hard ceramic tiles of the lavatory. |
| Boudreaux: | I move into the shower and look around. |
| Keeper: | Stepping cautiously over the raised barrier separating the showers from the greater portion of the wash area, you peer about and discover the source of the incessant drip. As anticipated, it is a leaky showerhead in dire need of basic repairs. The stall itself is empty except for a small puddle of water slowly trickling into the drain basin. Your movements echo hollowly in the confined area. |
| Boudreaux: | “What the hell is happening to me?” I look around on the floor. Any sign of wheel tracks? |
| Keeper: | The condensation that once held the odd track marks is long gone, evaporated by action of the ventilator fans and time. |
| Boudreaux: | Is there any place that that machine/creature could have come from inside the stall? |
| Keeper: | There are several rectangular windows on pivoting sashes set along the exterior-facing wall of the shower stall, but they are about seven feet above floor level. Theoretically, the thing could have fit through one of them, but they lock from the interior and there would have been a terrible racket when it hit the tile floor. |
| Boudreaux: | What do these windows look out on? |
| Keeper: | The open area to the rear of the CQ and Exchange, then on to the northern perimeter fence about 150 to 200 yards further. |
| Boudreaux: | Hmmm. Can I tell if they are in fact locked? |
| Keeper: | Yes. They all appear locked. |
| Boudreaux: | I continue to look around the lavatory - around the toilets and the perimeter of the room. |
| Keeper: | Pushing open the toilet stalls, you find each unoccupied and no evidence of recent use. From there, you move to the small cleaning closet, finding only mildew-smelling mops and an assortment of cleaning supplies. All in all, the room bears no evidence of any overt activity since you departed earlier. But you feel unnerved. As if you have subconsciously begun to expect the unnatural as opposed to the mundane. |
| Boudreaux: | I look at myself in the mirrors. How do I look? |
| Keeper: | The reflection is completely normal, but here again you find that a simple action such as looking into a mirror requires inadvertent forethought never before necessary. It’s as if you feel the constant need to steel yourself against an impending shock. |
| Boudreaux: | (to himself) “I think I need a drink . . . or something equally medicinal.” Can I compose myself? I don’t want everyone around here thinking I’m losing it. |
| Keeper: | The feelings are all internal, easy enough to mask. |
| Boudreaux: | I take a few minutes to go sit on my bed and relax. |
| Keeper: | Seating yourself on the small bed, the springs creak gently under your weight. Scanning the room, you find that you are, indeed, alone in your quarters. Nothing seems amiss. |
| Boudreaux: | (to himself) “This is great. Jumping at shadows and paranoid . . . maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have a pistol.” I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths - try to force myself to relax and calm down. |
| Keeper: | In short order, you feel as though you’ve regained some sort of internal equilibrium and composure. Perhaps it is being alone, you wonder. |
| Boudreaux: | I think I’ll head on over to the Exchange and just hang out with the men. |
| Keeper: | Still clad in your cold weather ensemble, the walk back to the Exchange is a chilly one. Passing the two armed guards outside the van, you observe (in your peripheral vision) them carefully monitoring your progress through imagery-enhanced eyes. |
| Boudreaux: | Is there any detectable motion from in the van? |
| Keeper: | None whatsoever. |
| Boudreaux: | I continue on, thinking to myself, “They seem very protective of that van out here in the middle of nowhere on a base full of unarmed men who are supposedly on the same side . . .” |
| Keeper: | Entering the Exchange, you find all of the personnel remaining to engage in the evening’s poker game present (the CO, Galloway, McDermott, Sparks, Spacek, and Pleasant) lounging around and ogling the exceptionally well-endowed actresses of Baywatch (with the exception of Pleasant, who avoids such activity). Tauch maintains his spot in the corner, puffing one Winston after another, but obviously equally impressed with Pamela Anderson Lee’s gravity-defying rack. As instructed, McDermott has cashed-out everyone’s paycheck and delivers yours, as you pass him by, in a sealed envelope along with your pay stub. Several of the men openly count their money while leering at the television screen. The lowest ranking man here is sitting on at least $500 in hard cash. |
| Boudreaux: | Should be a good night after all. |
| Keeper: | As the credits begin to roll, Galloway rises and retrieves the deck of cards from the entertainment center beneath the TV. Swisher clamped in his teeth, he smiles like a card shark. |
| Galloway: | “Time to part with your hard-earned money, gentlemen!” |
| Boudreaux: | “That’s right! I’m starting the out-of-work doctor’s pension fund tonight - and you’re all going to help me.” |
| Keeper: | There is a round of sniggling as, with a sense of excitement, chairs slide out and the television is turned off. Sparks moves over to the jukebox and soon the Eagles are serenading the Exchange with “Take It Easy”. |
| Boudreaux: | I grab a seat. |
| Keeper: | Thanks to the heavy duty roster this evening, the number of participants is limited. Pleasant, as usual, joins the rest of you in these weekly festivities, but refuses to engage in gambling or the consumption of alcohol. Instead, he shoots pool and amuses himself at what he regularly terms, “the lunacy of becoming inebriated while one’s entire earnings are at stake.” |
| Keeper: | Centering one of the larger round tables away from the rest, the men gather ‘round and withdraw wads of cash from their pockets. Pool balls click and clatter as Marlon shuffles the deck. An eclectic mix of classis rock and hip hop belt out of the jukebox. Beers are passed around from the special stash in the large refrigerators in the back of the kitchen. The large community area is set adrift in the haze of tobacco smoke which is accentuated by the motley collection of neon beer signs adorning the walls. |
| Keeper: | It never ceases to amaze you how servicemen can turn the bleakest environments into something remotely resembling civilization with only the barest materials. On poker night, the Exchange literally takes on the appearance of a small town bar. |
| Boudreaux: | Gotta stay sane somehow. |
| Keeper: | The first round is dealt, and with a cry from Marlon, the game begins. |
| Galloway: | “Ante up!” |
| Keeper: | In short order, McDermott cleans up on the first hand, costing you $10 and a nice pair of aces. |
| Boudreaux: | Oh, well. You win some, you lose some . . .By the way, I’m drinking coffee during the game. |
| Keeper: | Time flies, and before you realize it, two-and-a-half hours have expired. You’re not doing too badly, either - about $160 in the black. McDermott’s cleaning up, as usual. And Spacek, despite all of his trash talking, is seriously taking it in the shorts. Everyone else is pretty much hovering a little above or below the break-even mark. Carl laughs heartily every time a fold or call costs the smaller black man another dime, shaking his head in admonishment. Spacek rolls his eyes, chomping feverishly on a stirring straw. |
| Spacek: | (to Pleasant) What da hell you know ‘bout poker anyways?” |
| Pleasant: | (laughing) “Enough not to lose my money!” |
| Keeper: | Everyone laughs at this perennial discussion. |
| Tauch: | (coughing cigarette smoke in his laughter) “Always the fair-weather player, aren’t we, Julius?” |
| Boudreaux: | (slapping Spacek’s shoulder) “Hang in there, partner. Your luck’s gotta change . . .it can’t stay this bad forever!” |
| Keeper: | Again, the table erupts in laughter, some excessive due to the beers floating around. Spacek takes a long pull from his Coors. |
| Spacek: | “Yo, dog. Ya’ll just deal dat shit and we’ll see who be . . .” |
| Bang . . . . Bang!. . . Bang! | |
| Keeper: | The men look up in unison and shock. |
| Tauch: | “Shit!” |
| Galloway: | “Oh, fuck . . .” |
| Boudreaux: | I jump up and run to the windows. Does it sound like gunfire? |
| Keeper: | Yes, that was definitely a firearm. More specifically, an M-16. You bolt with the rest of the men from your chair and scatter toward the windows. An overturned beer bottle crashes to the floor. Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville” begins as the next selection on the jukebox. |
| Keeper: | As you and the first of the men reach the windows, you briefly observe a series of muzzle flashes before instinctively ducking as a staccato of gunfire erupts outside. |
| Badadadadada! . . . . . Badadadadadadadadadada! . .Badada! Badadad! Badadadadadada! | |
| Boudreaux: | Is there a light switch nearby? If so, I flip it off. “Everybody get down!” |
| Keeper: | Reaching up, you reach the switch and the room darkens except for the glow of the neon signs and the jukebox. It is apparent, from the resonance and percussion of the gunfire, that there are several shooters firing from different locations. Tauch moves to the door, opening it without thinking . . . |
| Boudreaux: | “Captain! Get down! We don’t know who’s firing at what! You might get caught in the . . .” |
| Badadadadadadada! . . . . .Badadadaadadaadadaadada!. . . .Badada! | |
| Keeper: | You are suddenly pelted by a shower of glass and debris. The CO recoils and men sprawl to the floor as a hail of gunfire erupts through the front of the Exchange. Neon signs tumble down from the walls in a shower of sparks and a billiards ball disintegrates in an explosion of dusty fragments. Amid the cacophony of epithets and shouts of alarm, someone screams in pain. The phone begins ringing. |
| Boudreaux: | “Shit!” Can I reach the phone? |
| Badadaada! . . . Badadadadadadada! . . .Badadadadadadadadada! | |
| Keeper: | Another spray of bullets chew through the Exchange as you move toward the ringing phone, sending plastic chairs and hanging cookware ricocheting across the room. Men dive hectically for better cover and someone overturns a table. |
| Keeper: | Make a Luck roll. |
| LUCK for Boudreaux: | (1d100) = 90 [failure] |
| SILENT HIT LOCATION for Keeper: | (1d20) = 18 [left arm] |
| DAMAGE for Keeper: | (2d6) = 4 |
| SILENT LUCK for Boudreaux: | (1d100) = 27 [success, bullet does not strike hand] |
| Keeper: | With the force of a freight train, a bullet rips through your left shoulder, spinning you to the floor. Your vision blurs, and amid the shouts and screams and sounds of gunfire and breaking glass, you feel the strong urge to just lie there. Warm liquid fills the sleeve of your BDUs. You take 4 HPs damage. |
| Keeper: | Your senses sharpen as you are forcefully grasped by the collar of your shirt and drug across the floor to a nearby booth by Spacek. He props you up and presses a wad of paper napkins against your wounds. |
| Boudreaux: | Can I still move around? |
| Keeper: | Yes, albeit with some pain. |
| Boudreaux: | “DAMN IT! What the hell is going on?!” |
| Galloway: | “WHO THE FUCK IS SHOOTING AT US?!!!!!!!” |
| Sparks: | (panting) “Is it our guys?” |
| Unknown: | “I CAN’T TELL!” |
| Boudreaux: | “Those are M-16s firing out there . . .” |
| Badadadadadaada! . . . . Badadada!. . . .Badadada!. . . . .Badadaadadadadaadadada! | |
| Keeper: | Again you are all forced to seek cover as another hail of gunfire rips through the building. There are more screams of pain. |
| Boudreaux: | Is there a back way out of here? “Anybody got a gun?” |
| Keeper: | You hear a collage of “No!” and “Fuck No! from all around the room. There is a back door, yes, through the kitchen. But it will require some open movement on your part to get to. |
| Boudreaux: | “Everybody stay down! It fucking HURTS to be shot!” I begin crawling over to the kitchen. |
| Keeper: | Scurrying across the floor, you overcome the prone form of McDermott, his skull an open mass of blood, brain matter, and shattered skull fragments. Men scream and holler as another round of deadly fire pierces the Exchange, zipping over your head. |
| Boudreaux: | “FUCK!” I roll him over. Is there nothing I can do for him? |
| Keeper: | He’s gone. Long gone. |
| Boudreaux: | “Damn it! Damn it! (into the room as a whole) Is anyone else hurt?” |
| Keeper: | Suddenly, there is a horrible, deafening whine accompanied by an excruciatingly loud sizzling noise throughout the Exchange. |
| Boudreaux: | “What the . . .” |
| Keeper: | The horrendous din drowns out your voice and any possible replies to your query. The air becomes inundated with the odor of ozone and painfully bright light floods through the windows and holes in the walls. Further adding to the surrealism of the situation, Jimmy Buffet miraculously continues to bemoan his loser lifestyle over the jukebox. The gunfire has ceased. |
| Boudreaux: | Can I see anything out the window? |
| Keeper: | Are you crawling back over to them, or just standing? |
| Boudreaux: | I just stand up. |
| Keeper: | Shifting your weight off the wounded shoulder, you slowly get to your feet. Carefully looking out toward the flooding light, you are forced to mash the makeshift dressing against your shoulder as the blood flows more freely. |
| Keeper: | You are forced to squint and shield your eyes from direct observation at the sight of a large outline of arcing blue-white light above where the van was parked across the street. The very brightness of the thing defies closer examination like the torch of an arc welder - literally shocking your pupils so much that you see only spots of whitish-blue light when you close your eyes. Static electricity flows across your body, raising the hair, and is physically palpable as pulses of energy shoot between the source of the searing light and the ground below like the props from some Frankenstein movie. |
| BOOOOOOOOOOM! | |
| Keeper: | With a heart-stopping explosion, the power fails completely and the music stops. Everyone reflexively dives to the floor. |
| Everyone: | “FUCK!” |
| Boudreaux: | Blinking to clear my eyes, I scramble back toward the front of the room, probing the walls for guidance. When I reach the door, I assume a crouched position to look outside. |
| Keeper: | Recovering from the shock of the explosion you move, passing men obviously breathing sighs of relief that the source evidently was not one of the guard’s rifle-launched grenades. They stare about in terror at you as you pass through the haze of dust particles and cordite illuminated in the streams of light still penetrating the windows and masses of bullet-induced orifices along the front of the Exchange. As you reach the door, your eyes finally begin to clear. Bracing yourself for another look, you notice that the lights flicker, then begin to pan slowly across the back wall before rapidly fading as the source rapidly moves away. |
| Keeper: | You are left, kneeling and breathing raggedly, in the faint moonlight spilling into the Exchange and the dim glow of the “Exit” sign above you. Everyone is dead silent, listening to the strange whistle of the cold December wind playing through the opened structure. Then, in the distance, there is a rumble accompanied by a brief tremor that vibrates the entire building, causing a final piece of glass to dislodge from a window and clatter to the ground. |
| Keeper: | Several men moan. Others, dusting glass and debris from their clothing and hair, slowly move to semi-sitting positions, still fearful to expose themselves. |
| Boudreaux: | I cautiously peer outside. What does the van look like? And the guards? |
| Keeper: | Pushing aside the splintered door, the entire Station is cast in moonlit darkness - complete power failure. A low orange glow emanates from the seams of the van, which billows acrid smoke from a smoldering front tire. Dark tendrils are also discernable carrying down Comstock from a pole top transformer and several amorphous masses lying in the road. |
| Sparks: | “What the fuck just happened? Oh, maaaan . . . (retching) I think McDermott’s history . . . |
| Boudreaux: | Any signs of movement? |
| Keeper: | Other than the smoke drifting rapidly away on the wind there is no movement. |
| Boudreaux: | (whispering) “You guys stay inside for now. Let me check this out.” |
| Galloway: | “Ahhhh, Chance. I’m hit pretty good here.” |
| Pleasant: | “Me, too, Doc. Not that bad though.” |
| Boudreaux: | “Captain? You okay? Spacek, you alright?” |
| Keeper: | Spacek nods in the affirmative, crouching to locate the injured men. The CO just sits there, against the wall, looking obliviously at the demolished Exchange. |
| Boudreaux: | Hell . . . I move back inside. |
| Keeper: | Boots crunching on broken glass, you cross the debris-strewn room to the sound of Marlon’s moaning. He is propped up against the leg of one of the pool tables and bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to his right thigh. A pool of blood spreads away from the pilot, appearing almost black in the low light. There is a trail of smeared blood across the floor from his efforts to reach this position. Pleasant kneels next to him, cradling a mangled right hand. A quick glance around reveals that just about everyone is bleeding to some degree. You can feel your own blood seeping down your torso as you kneel beside them. |
| Boudreaux: | “Spacek, get me some more napkins or towels.” I begin to assess Marlon’s injury. |
| Keeper: | Spacek nods curtly, panning the room for some readily available resource. Then, he stops suddenly. |
| Spacek: | “Shit, Doc! Wit’ da power out, Fuller’s off his ventilator!” |
| Boudreaux: | (shaking his head in frustration) “Shit! Can you get over there and bag him manually?” |
| Boudreaux: | ): (whispered) Do we have auxiliary power equipment to cover this? |
| Keeper: | (whispered) There is an emergency generator to the rear of the MTF for just such an occasion. |
| Keeper: | Spacek hands you several napkin dispensers and heads to the door, momentarily pausing to grab his parka. Observing that it is riddled with holes, he drops it in disgust and peers cautiously outside. |
| Keeper: | (whispered) Does it activate automatically or manually? |
| Keeper: | (whispered) It must be manually activated. |
| Spacek: | “Here comes da Cut-V!” |
| Keeper: | Quickly glancing up to follow Spacek’s pointing finger, you see the bobbing headlights of the rover vehicle speeding along the perimeter fence toward the North Gate. |
| Boudreaux: | “Be careful! We don’t know if all the shooters are down.” I apply direct pressure to Galloway’s thigh and determine if there is anything else that I can do for him. |
| Keeper: | Spacek disappears out the door. Make a Medicine roll. |
| MEDICINE for | |
| Boudreaux: | (1d100) = 48 [success] |
| Keeper: | Roll for healing affected. |
| HEALING for | |
| Boudreaux: | (1d3) = 3 |
| Keeper: | You are able, with the aid of your BDU belt, to create a secure pressure dressing that temporarily stanches the some of the bleeding. This could be a serious wound if his obviously shattered femur ruptures the nearby artery with movement. Sparks, finally convinced that it is safe to move about again, wipes his mouth and rises, disappearing into the darkness of the kitchen. You hear the rear door of the Exchange open and, within moments, the roar of the generator in the rear. Emergency lighting returns to the room. The place is in shambles and getting colder by the minute. |
| Boudreaux: | Can I determine that here, or must I move him? As in to the MTF? |
| Keeper: | As stated, the femur is definitely damaged, evidenced by a marked shortening of Marlon’s left leg. The bleeding, however heavy, is not arterial. Your greatest fear is that improper movement of the leg could result in an arterial bleed from which the man would rapidly exsanguinate. |
| Boudreaux: | Is there anything in the immediate area to stabilize the leg with? A table leg or something? |
| Keeper: | Headlights pan the Exchange and there is a screech of tires outside. There are plenty of makeshift splinting devices available, but the man needs a traction splint to ensure no further injury occurs. |
| Boudreaux: | Can I devise one, or is there one at the MTF? |
| Keeper: | No, you must get one from the MTF. Someone can apply manual traction for the time being, however. Gonzales storms in, rifle in hand, magazine untaped and loaded. He looks distraut and is out of breath. |
| Boudreaux: | “What the hell happened out there, Gonzales?” |
| Gonzales: | “Vince’s dead in the guard shack. (pant) An’ it looks like we got maybe tree more dead outside. (noticing the condition of the interior of the Exchange) Fuuuuck . . . " |
| Boudreaux: | “I said, what the fuck happened, private? What started this?” |
| Gonzales: | (shaking his head nervously) I dunno! Whatever it was, it shot off likes a rocket nort’east ah here and hit somewheres out on Sierra 6. I saws it go down.” |
| Boudreaux: | “Marlon, hang in there . . . just don’t move that leg, no matter what. (to Gonzales) Who did the firing? Who got Vince and the other three?” |
| Gonzales: | “I DUNNO! (pant) I was on da other side ah da Station when I first heards it goin’ down! Shit!” |
| Keeper: | Obviously hopped-up on adrenaline, the young Marine assumes a guarded stance at the door, weapon at the ready. |
| Boudreaux: | “Don’t go shooting any friendlies out there. Why don’t you go check on the van and see what happened to those hyped-up-on-steroids guards that came with it.” |
| Keeper: | Gonzales moves out to follow your orders, then stops on the steps of the Exchange. |
| Galloway: | “Shit, it hurts!” |
| Pleasant: | “Hang in there, LT. Doc’ll get you fixed up.” |
| Boudreaux: | “I know it hurts. Hang in there.” I start applying traction to his leg. Is the Cut-V still out there? |
| Gonzales: | “Here comes Doty and Spacek!” |
| Keeper: | The Cut-V is idling in front of the Exchange, yes. Doty and Spacek hurtle into the Exchange. Spacek carries two aid bags and Doty, rifle slung over his shoulder, bears a broken down litter and a Hare traction splint. |
| Boudreaux: | “How’s Fuller?” |
| Doty: | “I tried . . .I tried to call . . . (noticing the condition of the room and its occupants) Jee-zus. . .” |
| Spacek: | (shaking his head solemnly) “Fuller’s gone, Doc. By the time we gots da generator goin’, he was already gone . . .” |
| Boudreaux: | “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! This is not friggen’ happening!” |
| Boudreaux: | “Give me those aid bags and get the splint ready. I soon as I get him cleaned up a little, we’ll splint him.” |
| Galloway: | “Fuuuck. Where’s the CO?” |
| Gonzales: | “I didn’t see him when I gots here.” |
| Keeper: | The men peer around in frightful wonderment. There is no sign of him. Spacek drops beside you with the medical supplies and begins attending to Pleasant’s hand. Doty relieves you in applying traction. There is blood everywhere. |
| Boudreaux: | I clean and dress Galloway’s wound first. Is there anything for pain in the aid kit? Nothing strong enough, I’m sure. |
| Keeper: | No. There are no narcotics in the aid bag. They are all under lock and key at the MTF. There is, however, serum albumin to combat hypoperfusion. |
| Galloway: | “Better find him, Chance. I’m a little outta commission here . . .” |
| Boudreaux: | “We’ll find him. (to the others) If you want to go and check on the status of things, go in teams and sweep the Station. Check his office and keep an eye on that van. No one go’s out alone - always have a partner with you.” |
| Keeper: | Gonzales nods to Sparks, who grabs Doty’s rifle and, untaping the magazine, inserts it in the receiver before following the Marine out. |
| Boudreaux: | (soothingly) “Relax, Marlon. He’ll be fine. We’ll find him an everything’ll be okay.” I begin applying the splint, taking care to explain everything that I do. |
| Keeper: | The splint is successfully applied and his immediate condition is stabilized. In the mean time, Spacek has applied a baseball splint to Pleasant’s gnarled hand. When you are both finished, the corpsman assists you in sliding Galloway over onto the litter. |
| Boudreaux: | “We’ll get you on that plane in the morning, but first I need to get you to the MTF.” |
| Keeper: | Spacek, noticing you wince in pain during the effort, begins to cut loose the sleeve on your BDU blouse and applies two field dressings to your wounds. |
| Spacek: | “Looks clean, Doc. Round went straight through ya.” |
| Boudreaux: | “Good. It felt like it did, too.(nodding to Galloway) Let’s get him over to the MTF and get him properly stabilized. I want to see Fuller, too. Hopefully, the others’ll find the CO.” |
| Keeper: | Spacek begins hastily gathering the medical supplies. |
| Spacek: | “You one lucky son of ah bitch, you know dat, Doc?” |
| Boudreaux: | “Lucky? Look around you, Spacek. You call this lucky? When we’ve gotten everyone stabilized - then I’ll feel lucky.” |
| Keeper: | Pleasant shoulders and aid bag with his good hand and Doty takes the head of the litter in order to spare you the strain on your wounded shoulder. Spacek, other aid bag slung over his shoulder, takes the foot end. As you near the door, Sparks and Gonzales trot up. |
| Sparks: | “We found Tauch . . .(pant) . . . He’s in his office . . . (pant) He ain’t right, man. He’s got a gun and won’t talk to us! (pant)” |
| Keeper: | Gonzales, standing behind Sparks at the base of the steps, cautiously pans the area with his assault rifle. He looks up the steps at you. |
| Gonzales: | “Now what the fuck we gonna do?” |
| Boudreaux: | If Marlon is stabilized for the moment, can we get him to the Cut-V or do we have to move him on foot? |
| Keeper: | The Cut-V is parked right in front of the Exchange, still idling. |
| Boudreaux: | (nodding to the Cut-V) “Let’s get him in the truck. You two go with Spacek and get the LT to the infirmary - but be very gentle with. I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m gonna have a talk with Tauch.” |
| Keeper: | Moving down the steps with your burden, transient clouds of smoke continue to migrate down Comstock in the illumination of the Cut-V’s headlights. The air is tainted with an odor you immediately recognize as that of seared human flesh. The men look around in shock as Sparks and Gonzales behave like armed escorts to the waiting vehicle. |
| Boudreaux: | I make sure Galloway is loaded as comfortably as he can be and then move to talk with Spacek. |
| Keeper: | Galloway is slid into the rear of the Cut-V, with the back seat folded over. The length of the litter and splint make closing the door impossible. |
| Boudreaux: | “Hang in there, Marlon. We’ll get some pain meds into you in a second and make sure you’re comfortable. You’ll be in good hands with Spacek. I’ll be back in five.” |
| Keeper: | Galloway nods and closes his eyes. Doty climbs in the driver’s seat, with Pleasant as the passenger. Spacek climbs in the back with Galloway and Sparks seats himself on the bumper to keep the door from slamming closed. |
| Boudreaux: | “Spacek, can you handle these guys for a few minutes? I have to go check on the Old Man - sounds like he may do something stupid. Be careful and just get Galloway situated in the trauma bay. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Gonzales and Sparks’ll go with you for security.” |
| Keeper: | The corpsman nods and bangs on the ceiling of the Cut-V. Doty slowly pulls the vehicle away toward the MTF, exposing Gonzales, who is still standing there with his rifle at the ready. |
| Boudreaux: | “You have a problem following orders, Marine?” |
| Gonzales: | “You crazy, man? I’m stayin’ witchu. The way I sees it, LT’s down an’ CO’s fucked-up. Dat puts you in charge. You go down an’ we’re really fucked.” |
| Keeper: | He scans the area aggressively. |
| Boudreaux: | “Okay. Just keep cool.” I briefly scan the van as we move to the CQ. Any sign of the guards or what is left of them? |
| Keeper: | No. There is no sign of the guards, although the mounds in the road producing the god-awful stench pervading the street are a good assumption as to their current condition. |
| Boudreaux: | Okay. We move cautiously, but quickly, to the CQ. |
| Keeper: | Entering the open door of the CQ, you immediately notice that the Arms Room door stands wide open. Glancing right in the darkness, the door to the CO’s office is slightly ajar. The place is silent except for the moan of the wind through the front door. |
| Boudreaux: | I move quickly into the Arms Room and use my penlight to search for available weapons. |
| Keeper: | There are 20 M16A2 rifles mounted on brackets along the right wall, and five Barretta M92 9mm pistols beneath them. Boxes of accordant ammunition and magazines line the shelves to the left. Unfortunately, the weapons racks are locked and the CO holds the keys. |
| Boudreaux: | The 9mms are locked up too? |
| Keeper: | A locking bar runs through the trigger guards of the pistols. |
| Boudreaux: | Would a bullet through the lock solve the problem? |
| Keeper: | Yes, probably. |
| Boudreaux: | Okay. I call out, “Captain? Are you okay?” |
| Keeper: | There is no response. Gonzales cautiously moves into the reception room, then makes a beeline for the Arms Room, rummaging noisily through the ammo containers. |
| Boudreaux: | I move towards the office door. His office is dark? |
| Keeper: | The entire building is dark. No power has been restored to it. Are you looking inside? Gonzales emerges from the Arms Room with two canisters in his hands and, making use of the ambient moonlight coming through the open front door, begins loading 30 round magazines with 5.56 ammunition. |
| Boudreaux: | Through the crack, yes. I push the door slightly open. |
| Keeper: | You see the man seated behind his desk, but pivoted in his chair so that his back is toward you. He is silhouetted by a pale sliver of moonlight cast through his single office window. He does not move at the sound of the door opening wider. Beside him, on his desk, the dark form of a pistol is superimposed on the white surface of his desk calendar. |
| Boudreaux: | I lunge for the pistol. |
| Keeper: | You take it. It is cool. Oddly, the man doesn’t move. |
| Boudreaux: | Oh-oh. I turn his chair around. |
| Keeper: | Spinning the chair, you find no obvious evidence that he has used the weapon to harm himself. Rather, he appears to be in a catatonic state - staring blankly into the space in front of him. Gonzales steps into the doorway behind you. |
| Gonzales: | “He still here, Doc?” |
| Boudreaux: | “I think so . . .” I check for a pulse. |
| Keeper: | He has one. Normal and regular. |
| Boudreaux: | “Captain?” I slap him gently on the cheek. |
| Keeper: | There is no response. He doesn’t even blink at the impact of your hand. |
| Gonzales: | (growing impatient) “Well grab his keys, Doc! We can’t be runnin’ ‘round here in da dark widout weapons! We just took a major ass-kicking!” |
| Boudreaux: | (tersely) “Did you see what did it to us? It FLEW off into the night. There may some strange shit going on, but we are gonna maintain order here.” |
| Keeper: | The Marine nods nervously, peeking back out into the darkened lobby often. |
| Boudreaux: | I tuck the pistol into my pants and see if I can locate his keys. |
| Keeper: | Patting down his uniform, you find them easily enough in his front pocket. |
| Boudreaux: | “We’re gonna have to get him over to the MTF with the other guys that need to be looked at . . . then we can try to figure out what happened.” |
| Gonzales: | “Like I said, wit him like dat and da LT outta da loop, you in charge sir. What da fuck are we gonna do here? What if it comes back?” |
| Boudreaux: | I move back to the Arms Room and take an M16 and some clips. Then, I grab some ammo and clips for the pistol and lock it all back up. Returning to Tauch’s office, I address Gonzales. “Once we get everyone stabilized, we can arm the whole staff.” I shoulder the rifle and pocket the clips, then grab one side of Tauch and try to stand him. “Help me move the Captain.” |
| Keeper: | Holding his rifle upright, the Marine slides an arm under Tauch’s armpit and attempt to lift him with your assistance. He doesn’t budge. Dead weight. |
| Gonzales: | “Ahhhh, fuck dis shit, man. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Can’t we jus’ lock him up in here or sometin’?” |
| Boudreaux: | “We’ll get the Cut-V and bring him . . . wait.” In my condition, can I throw him over my shoulder and carry him? I’m pretty strong, but injured. |
| Keeper: | With Gonzales’ assistance, yes, you could probably take him in a fireman’s carry. It won’t be painless, though. |
| Boudreaux: | “Come on, Gonzales . . . time to earn your pay. Give me a hand here.” |
| Keeper: | After a few abortive attempts, you get him up. Your shoulder throbs with the effort, but you think you can make it. |
| Boudreaux: | “I’m getting too old for this shit . . . Let’s get him to the MTF.” |
| Keeper: | Moving with textbook urban warfare tactics, Gonzales leads the way out - scanning up and down Comstock as you move. Up ahead, the restored lights of the infirmary shine like a beacon at the darkened southern end of the street. The smoke is still fairly thick, despite the chill wind. |
| Keeper: | About three-quarters of the way there, Gonzales peers back behind you and freezes. |
| Gonzales: | “Hey, sir. Someone’s comin’ down 811.” |