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WEEBLE
"Get some food, then come get me when you're done. I'll take you to the showers and your gear."
"Thanks. I'm Victor." Weeble answered, following the man through the building's door. All of the buildings seemed to be the same size, about 25 feet by 25 feet.
The man grunted, then pointed to the kitchen with a gesture of a swinging hand. The cabinets, appliances, and counters took up half the space in the interior of the building. Only two fluorescent lighting fixtures were turned on in the kitchen area, the other four fixtures remained dark.
"Clean up after yourself." Then he turned around and exited, leaving Weeble to figure out where the food was, the utensils, dishes.
He looked around, realizing there was nothing to see, the building was entirely open with no walls inside. Half kitchen, half bench tables with folding chairs.
He saw that the oven was set to `warm' and pulled open the door. Two covered aluminum cooking trays sat on the racks inside. It smelled good. He rummaged around the cabinets and drawers, grabbing a bowl and something to pull the trays out with.
When he was done, he washed his what he'd used in the sink and set them in the rack to dry. 10 minutes had elapsed. He went to the single window and looked outside but couldn't see anything except the lights on the building next to this one. Something itched at the back of his brain, but he couldn't identify what was bothering him.
He made sure to walk around the opposite side of the building from his approach before going back to where he'd met the man, noting the distance between buildings and judging size and dimension. He was sure it was no accident that he'd originally come across the man in that particular place. Again, he figured Mole already had an exact layout which could be determined from satellite, a flyover or even ground reconnaissance but any detail could provide further information.
From what he could see all of the buildings except the central taller one only had one door. The plain, basic nature of the featureless buildings again left him feeling odd, but he couldn't figure out why. The absence of people didn't help. So far he'd only seen two men. Maybe the rest were in the central tall building? That would make sense.
As expected, he found his host in the same spot which confirmed his intuition that he was a sentry and not just passing time in boredom against a wall. And that meant there were other sentries.
Again, there was no talking, no commentary as he followed the man to another building and there was similar minimal effort. His host had a pace and action to his walking step that Weeble immediately identified as military training. It was his posture, the length of his stride, the control. His gestures were precise and limited, made with an aligned open hand.
After entering, Weeble saw six shower heads along one wall, with a short four foot wall separating the wet area from the rest of the room. A single door closed off a partition which appeared to be a closet judging by its small size. His guide pointed to the showers then walked over to that door and entered it, closing it behind him. Curious.
Weeble undressed and went to the showers, turning one of the heads on and waiting for it to heat up. He wasn't going to pass up a hot shower even if it seemed useless because he intended to go back out into the woods. The nap that Mole allowed him accomplished re-energizing him, but the hot water spraying over his tired and sore muscles threatened to suck him back into sleepiness and just as he shut the water off his guide returned with his MOLLE. He threw it on the cement floor outside the shower and left without a word or look. Three minutes in a closet, with the door closed?
Weeble pulled out new underwear and thermals, got dressed in a rush and decided before he donned his makeshift ghillie once again, he had to see what was in that closet. Just in case he was discovered, he reminded himself of one of Bootlicker's lessons months ago - `act like you aren't doing anything wrong, as if you're supposed to do it. Like you do it every day. No one takes a second look at someone who belongs.'
So he walked over and opened the closet door, looking inside. It was a typical 3 foot wide closet, with shelves at the back of its 7 foot length. Mostly empty floorspace, nothing stood out. A single utility bulb illuminated the space. If this was where his MOLLE was stored, it wouldn't have taken his entire shower for his guide to emerge.
It didn't add up.
He was about to close the door, then thought checking behind the door would be more thorough. He didn't expect to find anything except another cinder block wall but it needed doing.
Instead, he found a small box mounted near the corner. His heart sped up. He had to close the door to get to it. The closet was warm. How? Forced air? And then one of the itchy spots at the back of his mind sparked... utilities. He hadn't seen any utilities, not outside, not inside the two buildings he'd been inside. No power lines. Where was the water heater for the showers? Forced air meant HVAC, a climate system. He flipped up the cover on the box and saw a button. Without thinking, he pressed the button and stumbled as the floor moved beneath him in a painful, slow descent that seemed way too loud. He almost reached out to hit the button again and go back up, but Bootlicker's lesson was fresh in his mind. Like he was supposed to be here. He invented that his guide had showed him how to put his MOLLE back after he was done, impatient to get back to his sentry post. Just doing what he was told. The fiction calmed him immediately.
Except he didn't have his MOLLE with him. So, just looking for someone to help him, that was his motivation.
When the lift came to a stop, an entire second compound met his eyes. Tall, rectangular support columns supported a concrete ceiling overhead about 20 feet up. The space had the feel of a warehouse, extending into the distance maybe a hundred yards. He heard a couple distant voices and took a quick look around. He saw the Bravo's gear piled up nearby. He darted over and crouched behind the pile.
A fucking bunker. Now it made sense. The dining hall with only a small fridge, not near big enough to hold enough food to feed everyone at the compound. That second itch went away. The hum of equipment thrummed, utilities, possibly a generator which would make sense. An isolated militia wouldn't be grid dependent. This was the intel that Mole's group needed. He had to get layout, dimensions, inventory. He'd already seen enough to know each building had its own lift and access to this massive bunker.
He looked around the side of their pile of gear and saw a couple men moving up one of the lifts, the central one that most likely went to the central building. The voices faded. Maybe he was alone.
He stood up, noticing his arms trembling. His recent experience with Whisperman forced him to take note of an escape path back to the lift he'd come down, and he was thankful because that was when he noticed the box with the button that activated it. He might have only seconds and hitting that button might secure his escape.
Bootlicker's voice lectured in his head. `Look like you belong, like them.'
I fuckin love you Bootlicker. He thought to himself.
He looked around after standing. There. Simple bunks and lockers, probably where the militia could grab some rest, store their stuff. He ran over and opened the first locker. He grabbed whatever he saw that matched what he'd seen them wearing, that hunter's woodland camo. It didn't matter if it fit, hell nothing was going to fit him that a grown man wore. All he needed it to do was disguise him from a distance. He threw it on directly over his thermals. An extra layer wouldn't hurt.
He took a moment to consider how amazing this entire compound was. He had no way of knowing how thick the concrete was above his head, but he had a descent time on the lift, which gave a rough idea of how far underground he was. And he knew this area was rocky, even becoming mountainous further west into Alabama. It must have taken a ton of money to dig this out, then re-establish a perfectly normal surface environment above. Or had they let the bedrock do the work, tunneling out what they needed? if that was the case, there was a bolt hole somewhere, an exit that was probably concealed. Anyone who planned this project wouldn't have made the lifts the only way to the surface.
He added that to his list.
Should he go back up and get his MOLLE, and use the exit he found, if he could find it? Shit, he couldn't decide.
`No, you can't let them know that you know' Bootlicker again. Or what Weeble imagined he would say.
Which meant he had to make quick work of his recon. He began to run the perimeter. If he heard anything, he could slow to a walk to bring less attention, but he didn't think anyone was down here. Everyone must be out in the field training the Bravos or up in the command center. He could see how this area wouldn't be used much during active training.
As he made his way around the edge, he made notes. The concrete support columns were spaced maybe forty feet apart. Bootlicker could probably calculate the load weight above based on the size of the columns and their spacing but that was beyond Weeble. He just knew it had to be incredibly massive. And that meant money. Something like this didn't just happen. This wasn't some weekend warrior wannabe soldier club pretending to be patriots protecting the second Amendment, wearing their fake patches, fake unearned rank, shooting off their home modified automatic weapon at some dilapidated trailer while downing a six pack, this was some serious, deep and capable outfit. He could see how they might get security contracts worldwide, and they probably got paid in the millions.
If these weren't the good guys, it was a poisonous nest of vipers on American soil.
The upcoming sight of what couldn't only be a munitions armory stopped him in his tracks.
`Fuck me runnin' he said slowly to himself.
.50's, AK's, Sigs, Hecklars, M16s, M4's, M60's... fuck ALL THE FUCKIN M'S, Tavors, Galil's, you name it, all hand, shoulder, or stationary weapons covered what looked like a small library's worth of shelves and walls set into an alcove to one side. It was like a military geography lesson in small arms. Glocks of 17, 19, 21 ... Berettas, Rugers, fuckin REVOLVERS like Smith & Wesson, Colt, Ruger, even goddamn CARBINES. He grabbed a Glock 21 .45 ACP, pulled the slide out of habit for a quick chamber check for cold, and tucked it into his thermal underwear, and three empty magazines. Because, you know... you never know. There must have been over 1000 small and large caliber projectile weapons of all kinds. Beyond that, launchers in cases piled to the ceiling. RPGs, small shoulder missile launchers, and a bunch of stuff Weeble hadn't learned yet, coming late to Infantry but it was ten levels above serious that he fuckin WISHED he had in his own basement. If he had a basement. If he had a house. Which he didn't, but when he did it was gonna look like FUCKIN THIS! HOLY GOOD GODDAMN.
He didn't bother with a count, settling on `a fuckin shit ton'. But the next bay stopped him in his tracks.
Ammo and ordinance. Stacks and stacks of green ammunition cases for individual small and large caliber rounds. He carefully scanned the multitude, and found .45 FMJ (Full Metal Jacket) boxes. He spent the next 52 seconds cramming the magazines with 13 rounds, then tucked them into his thermal underwear band. He saw Boxes labeled `Grenades'. At least two hundred of those, stacked 10 tall, five rows deep, four wide. Probably for hand or the 40-Mike Mike. Missiles? Small SAMS, either shoulder launched or truck launched. C4, bricks and bricks of it. But the last stack of cases terrified him. APMs. They had fuckin mines. Anti Personnel Mines.
This was on the level of overthrowing a small third world country. Hell, it could put a dent in a U.S. Army Battalion for fuck's sake. He wasn't stupid, 98% of this was illegal to privately own. Explosives? MISSILES? How the hell do you get your hands on this stuff without setting off every fucking alarm bell in the U.S.?
Screw the recon of the exit. He should get back to Mole with this intel. But he knew he could get more, and should.
He decided he didn't need to run. He would hear someone coming down a lift. He would still hurry in his recon though, wanting to make a complete circuit before going back up. His guide seemed more than willing to ignore him for a while. He had time. `You aren't doing anything wrong' Bootlicker's voice reminded him. He took three deep breaths.
He'd thought the bunker was roughly the size of a football field, but now he knew he'd been so wrong. Off the side were multiple caverns like the munitions bays. He passed an opening about 20 feet wide that he saw led to what he could only call a motor pool with toolboxes, vehicle lifts, hydraulics and air hoses. ANOTHER football field sized cavern contained vehicles of all types. Troop carriers. Small pickup trucks with mounts for armaments. Even Humvees. Had those even been decommissioned yet after Iraq? They hadn't even pulled all the troops out since the mission was now Re-build Iraq and Kuwait. He felt disappointed when he didn't see a tank. Puta would have a field day in this area.
This went beyond small home country militia. This was an army. With ALL the equipment. He dreaded what he might find in the last opening on this side.
Cargo netting covered the opening, but he could look through by putting his head up against it.
No.
That wasn't real.
His birds. Three of his birds, sitting there. AH64s. He already knew they had the load for them, in some crate back in the munitions area. But seriously? IN A FUCKIN CAVERN UNDER GROUND?
Who the fuck were these guys? He noticed the rail tracks laid beyond his birds, converging into a single track and leading off into darkness. A way out? The exit, or one of them? He didn't miss that the birds were battle ready, fully loaded and ready for engagement.
He already didn't want to know what was down the other side of the cavern, but still ran across the width. Shit, he was the size of a pea compared to the open space. If anyone actually saw him it would be a miracle.
He passed open showers, a series of open toilets and sinks that comprised the latrine, and curiously a row of five padded waist high tables followed by a similar row of waist high metal stainless steel tables with a raised edge. It seemed strange, but a little medical? Examination beds? Autopsy? There were drains in the floor. Weeble shivered with the creeps.
The next alcove he encountered drew him. Battle gear stacked, shelved, displayed, threw as if discarded in another small library like area.
"Night vision?" Oh fuck yeah. He threw it on his head. He started grabbing. He snagged a gear pack from a stack. Oh, a tactical vest. Fuck yeah. He threw it over his head and settled it on his shoulders, transferring the loaded magazines tucked into his waistband to the pockets made for them.
Knives, comm device, chem heat warmers, glow sticks, target sights with IR and distance, ears... fuckin EARS... he'd pick up conversations a hundred yards away... a breach kit, gear belt with slips, picks, sole covers to disguise footprints Holy fuckin shit, if he had a chance to bring Bootlicker here and a pickup truck...it was the candy store. Hell, he'd just tell Bootlicker how to get here, he'd clean this fucking place out, probably hook a small cargo crate to one of the Birds and fly it home. No, Bootlicker didn't know how to fly. Eagle would do it. If those two could get along. Still, for this kind of Bootleg Pirate Treasure, Eagle would probably suffer Bootlicker long enough.
Weeble felt a tingle go up his spine. Eagle said he could fly anything. Bootlicker could figure out how to cargo so much of this shit. Could he? Who else would he need? Demon? Fast. Shit Assmunch would be perfect to logistic everything, figure out what was important, what was dead weight. But Assmunch hadn't turned up. Not Zeus... they were stealing... Zeus wouldn't like that. Sleeper wouldn't take it seriously. Wanker would have to come with Bootlicker, of course, but Wanker was crafty, sneaky. Tonka? Shit, Tonka was perfect. Heavy equipment load master. So, he had to contact Bootlicker and tell him the plan. Then get Demon, Wanker, Eagle, and Tonka.
Fuck. Whisperman probably had Bootlicker. Might even be torturing him. But Weeble was going to steal one of these Birds AND a whole bunch of armament and munitions from these fuckers. So, he'd get Bootlicker free from Whisperman. And now that he had gear... Whisperman would be getting a couple bloody notches in HIS ears.
Nice fantasy, dumbshit.' He said to himself. Just get Bootlicker free.' No one was cleaning this place out. Where would they put anything they took? It would never happen.
He came back down to earth, ran the length of the other side, noticing the freezers (probably food), dry storage (canned goods, root vegetables, other humidity and temperature sensitive goods) like a commissary, an area with random goods and necessaries like linens, towels, paper products, chemicals... all maintenance, upkeep, and janitorial goods. They'd thought of everything, and judging by the inventory they could live underground here for years.
The last opening he crossed on his way back to the lift that would take him back up to the showers was another cavern the size of a football field. And that's where the physical plant was laid out. Power Generation, water treatment plant, a well pump for water, HVAC with a condenser, a heat pump, heat exchangers, a cooling tower.... That told him he must be far enough below ground to have the earth constant. 30 ft? 40? `You know, Bootlicker, you've ruined me. I never knew nothin about fuckin earth constant before you.'
EAGLE
The Bravos weren't a bad place to nest, he thought. The Army didn't like giving up flight qualified pilots, but they didn't leave him much choice. He should have gone for the Marines or Air Force, he did have the option of a branch transfer. They would have been more forgiving if he'd played that card.
They took his Warrant, and he was busted down to Private. He felt he had little choice when the offer came for this special training'. I was a fucking WARRANT OFFICER for fuck's sake. Enjoy your one stripe, PRIVATE, was the look in their eyes. How's it feel? At the time it felt like they were putting him on the short bus, to be honest. You don't follow the rules, you retard. This is what you get.' In truth, it was `fly straight, land tight, we'll bump you back up.' - just a warning. But fuck them. He guessed they didn't figure on him actually enjoying himself. He first made the choice in a spiteful reaction, why not? But over the next few months he'd found a rhythm, it sucked less every day and if he was honest with himself he enjoyed the mental break. Not a lot thinking necessary in an Infantry unit. Plus, he had Assmunch watching out for him, Sleeper and Zeus standing guard like two fucking Collossi guarding the harbor of Rhodes, Then Bootlicker digging up intel, Weeble doing most of the work, Demon taking fire with Troll, Wanker being a cum-drain. He could ride this slow train until they restored his Warrant and pulled him back up to active flight status.
Drinking, that was his Achilles heel. Showing up for duty drunk or hungover meant you weren't put behind the stick. He felt that was unfair, because so many of his fellow pilots would be hungover right beside me and yet he was the one singled out. Maybe it was that he was only 21 years old, and maybe Sling's bullshit accusation. Eagle wasn't even that drunk and it was a joke.
Whatever, he though. He'd get back up. They were just trying to teach him a lesson. The Army couldn't afford to throw away good pilots, they were rare, cultivated, and protected. Sure he'd fucked up. He figured out soon after that he should have gone over the pants, not down them, but you know... five or six shots and just as many beers... why the hell did Sling care? It was still worth it. Sling was packing. Hefty payload. Big sweaty salami in those shorts. Not even partially hard, just soft and unaroused. And thicker than Eagle would have given him credit for.
They were both drunk, too stupid for words and Eagle made a mistake. Sling had laughed it off, but must have felt different the next day when he reported it. Funny that, he was smiling and laughing the whole time Eagle stroked his fat cock in his trousers at the bar. Hell, he didn't even pull it out.
It's not like Eagle jacked off later thinking about it. He wasn't a fag. Sling was just...something, but they sure weren't gonna fuck. Eagle touched his dick because he let him put his hand down his pants, it was like a dare, like how far are you going to take it', like gay chicken, that was all. Sling didn't stop him, he looked him straight in the eye while Eagle lifted his shirt, staring, then slowly inch by inch went into his waistband, waiting for him to flinch. He didn't. He smirked. So Eagle went lower, feeling his scratchy pubes. His grin widened. He wasn't going to stop. he was literally daring Eagle to grab his cock. Eagle was still fuzzy on how it had started, but he thought he remembered Sling asking why do you keep looking at me?' Ten minutes before Eagle's hand ended up down his shorts.
Which was bullshit. Sling knew he was good looking. You couldn't look at him without noticing how strong his jawline was, or how perfect his hair was, or how straight his nose was, or how his dark eyelashes made his green eyes stand out. He knew. And then his lips smiled exposing his perfect teeth. He knew. He had to practice his smile in the mirror, he was like a golden boy. One of those model types.
So of course because he was so arrogant Eagle decided he would play on his vanity. He didn't have some fag plan to feel Sling up, grab his dick. Look... you know how it is... a bro dares you, with his eyes, or explicitly with his words... `I dare you to grab my dick.' You do it, right? If you don't, you're a bitch, you can't man up, you won't go the extra mile for your bro, do the difficult shit. Hell, there were always games, during barracks parties... the Deepthroat challenge. Lips to balls, no choke, no homo. You swallow that soft cock and let their pubes tickle your nose, even let them grab your head with both hands and fuck your face. Normal, right? Three seconds max. Everyone's had their brother's cock in their mouth, right? That's what it's about. You gag just to show you don't like it, wash your mouth out with a gulp of beer, everyone laughs.
Marines now? Yeah, that's a different hole. Marines will let their bro up their dumper. BUT...not in their mouth. So now you know the difference between Marines and Army, For Marines, it's not gay to let your battle buddy fuck you in the ass, but ABSOLUTELY NO KISSING OR MOUTH ACTION. In the army, a little oral works, as long as you aren't `into it', but absolutely NO ASS!!!' Still, no kissing, same as Marines.
Look, it seems like Marines and Army should get R&R together. Probably result in a huge reduction in medical attention. Army could fuck the hell out of the Marines, or Army let Marines fuck their mouths. Oh wait... yeah, forget all that. We have the Navy for all that. Fucking, sucking. Hell, they have mops they call cumswabs, or maybe that's a rank and duty on their boats. They call them boats, right?
Eagle had always wanted to land his AH on a Destroyer and figure out what `compartment' he had to find to get his nuts emptied. It didn't matter, the bottom line was he'd always wondered about the Navy, and whether the rumors were true. Hell, he didn't even know if all Destroyers were equipped for an AH to land. Fuck, if they weren't he sure as shit couldn't land a Chinoook or anything else. He decided Destroyers had the serious sailors. He don't know why he decided that, but it seemed so tough... all firepower and explosive action, big guns, heavy loads, delivering payload.
He knew all that was just in his head. He knew he'd gone too far with Sling. He wasn't a fag and would never have actual sex with a guy. He'd just heard rumors, heard things from other Army, from the few Navy he'd come across and like 20 marines. It's all just fun. It's not seriously gay or anything. Dudes don't do dick stuff with other dudes. Brothers share everything, but getting off with your bro? That crosses a line.
But what do you do when it's in your face all the time? You just stop caring about casual nudity with other men, or casual incidental touch, so after a while it just becomes a non-issue and nothing special.
So here he was, grounded for the duration of his punishment, shunted over to an Infantry unit for however long they decided.
After joining the Bravos, it took him a while to admit he was spoiled, and generally lazy. Flight qualified pilots of any branch were in a special category. It had to do with the training, the demands of the job - both mental and physical. And it depended on a recruit fitting a very narrow list of criteria. A lot of your training was classroom, and not just anyone was chosen. There were no dumb pilots. The math alone separated the wheat from the chaff. Then there was the physics, aerodynamics mostly, but also just about anything to do with mass, velocity, parabolic trajectories based on thrust, wind, shear, lift. And beyond that - engine, torque, rotational speed, rotor and blade size and its effect on lift and maneuverability, fuel consumption.
And pilots had to maintain a level of fitness that allowed their bodies to endure some punishment. Pilots of all branches had upper and lower height and weight requirements that were more restrictive than the general ranks. Someone like Zeus couldn't be a fighter jet pilot, or an AH pilot. Most cockpits weren't roomy enough for anyone large. But, as fit as Eagle was as a pilot, he was nowhere near as capable as infantry. The first two weeks with the Bravos were spent in regret and agony. He wasn't even recovered from the previous day's punishment when the Bravos rolled out to do something else that left half of them collapsed, sometimes with only a couple hours sleep if they were lucky.
So yeah, after that it was hard to ignore that Infantry never stopped training, moving, PT, patrol, shooting, drills, digging, encamping, fortifying, combatives, skills testing, sometimes with at least 45 pounds of gear on your back. Some weeks they spent more time covered in sweat and dirt than they spent clean. Eagle thought he was peak fitness as a pilot? HAH! He came in proud and arrogant, he could admit that now. He thought he was special, a different breed than the grunts in Infantry that he was now ashamed to admit he formerly referred to as morons. But they weren't morons. Some were simple, like Holler, or Weeble, but not stupid. And that was the bottom line - Infantry were just direct, it wasn't tricky. And guys like Assmunch and Bootlicker didn't miss a thing. Sleeper, for all his dumb jock act, was diabolically clever in a way Eagle still had to figure out. Sleeper didn't add up, that much I knew. He came across as a dumb goofy muscle head, but every now and then he'd say something in a way that indicated a sharp intelligence. And nobody...no ONE consistently performed just slightly above qualifying on every task, every skill. Eagle didn't know what Sleeper's game was, it wasn't like he was lazy or didn't care. He just worked hard to not stand out for some reason.
Assmunch... there was something about him. He wasn't the smartest guy, but he was above average. He wasn't the most capable soldier either, but again...above average. He didn't have brilliant ideas, solutions, he wasn't super tough. It was that you just knew you could trust him. He rarely took whole credit for any success. He forced the Bravos to push just a little harder, knew exactly what to say when things got difficult, actually noticed when an individual was having a hard time. He had a way of calling out someone who was being a dick without making them feel like they were a piece of shit. Even before he was Platoon leader he did this stuff. Deferring to him happened gradually, without deliberate decision. We all just started asking him what he thought, or went to him with a problem. He wasn't loud or brash, didn't push his weight around, kept confidences. He didn't know the answers, but he knew where to FIND the answers and he was rarely wrong. A solid guy, Assmunch. A natural leader.
Right now, he should be paying attention to their instructor instead of thinking about Assmunch and the Bravos. He, Chunk and Dumbo were supposed to be waiting for the signal to move on the compound. They had a target and an objective. Infiltrate, disable the enemy, secure the area. Other units were independent but had the same objective. All they were waiting on was the `Go' for the operation from command.
Night had fallen about a half hour ago. The dark would help, recon had noted a watch and perimeter guard. There was going to be nothing delicate about this. No weapons. It was a straightforward physical attack, hand to hand battle, losers got hogtied. The side with the most successful combatants won the objective and completed the mission. You couldn't know how many of your side were successful, everyone was spread out to surround the compound. And...the part that made him extremely nervous... he didn't know who they were fighting. If it was the guys running the compound the Bravos were going to lose, that much he knew.
He decided his best option was to sneak. He knew some of the guys, like Demon, where ever he was, would just bolt straight forward and probably take his guy with a flying tackle. But that wasn't Eagle's style. Eagle preferred to stack the deck in his favor first and moderate the chaos of a frontal assault.
From what they knew of the size of the compound and position of the buildings they wouldn't face a group of defenders numbering more than them, which was good. Their recon count, if accurate, said they were about equal in number, which meant they had to spread out just like the Bravos had. A multi-directional assault gave the Bravo teams potential weak points that could be exploited.
Usually in any Battle Drill your leader would have to consider how to lay down suppressive fire to allow your platoon to move on an objective. The compound was considered an entrenched enemy position, which meant approaches were covered and the Bravos would encounter defensive fire. In this case, without weapons, there would be no actual defensive fire but the Bravos would assume another Platoon held positions to establish suppressive fire that allowed them to move forward.
Eagle played with the scenario in his head while they waited. "Hey, if we know they're spread out to cover the 360 degrees of approach, because they can't afford to let any of us slip past their defensive perimeter, why are we attacking in small groups? Why wouldn't we hit one position with an overwhelming force and penetrate?" He asked.
"This is the plan, Eagle. They are on alert, and entrenched. The compound isn't so large that response to a single point of attack couldn't allow them to converge in a short period of time, far shorter than we'd have to overwhelm them. Their intel is as good as ours. They wouldn't have to mass together to whittle us down to nothing, just maintain a covered position and eliminate us one by one. They wouldn't even need an equal amount of defenders, they could do it with half or a third of our number, leaving the rest of them to flank us." Chunk answered.
Eagle frowned. "But once we reach the buildings, we have the same advantage as they have, we level the playing field." He said.
Dumbo shook his head. "In theory, sure. But that only works when the enemy doesn't have intel on the size of our attack force, and remember: we don't have any units to leave behind to cover us from a flanking maneuver. They know that we won't have anyone covering our six, while the arrangement of the buildings in the compound allow them to cover several attack points from a single defensive position."
"If it was me calling the shots in there" Chunk continued, " I'd put three men in the perimeter defensive positions on the ground between each building and have a third man on the roof of every building, then have a unit of six or so men in the core center of the compound. The 360 assault is our best chance of success, and even then we're probably only going to get a fifth of our number past the perimeter for an assault on the core. And let's not forget we're going to have to clear those buildings as we go AND cover any routes out where they could send a unit or two to through a gap to come back and harass us from the rear. Right now, because we've surrounded the compound, we know they don't have any men out here, so our six is clear of enemies. This won't be as easy as it looks."
Dumbo snorted. "There's a trap somewhere in this, I just know it. I'm just glad we won't have wounded in this scenario, only kills. If we can get Demon, Troll, Zeus and The Nerd to the core, we might have a slim chance of accomplishing the mission. Besides," Dumbo gave a short laugh, "we don't have Assmunch, Weeble or Bootlicker. We're playing chess having lost a rook, a bishop and the Queen before the game even starts."
Eagle admired how Chunk and Dumbo saw the assault sequence from start to finish and just knew it was the best action plan. Having come late to Infantry Eagle didn't have the calm confidence in how it all would play out even though their Sergeants Bravo had drilled them to death in Germany. He'd asked Assmunch once during one of the more ridiculous scenarios they'd endured why it seemed like they were practicing battle drills from WWII instead of more modern Battle Drills.
"Because they work." Assmunch had answered. "Sure, there's small elements that have changed like we don't fight in trenches anymore, and bunkers are rare, but those are just representations of defensive positions that limit movement and sight and provide the enemy with weapons support beyond simple automatic weapons. They teach us to look at a battlefield in terms of unknowns, hidden and highly protected enemies and consider ground troop movements with attack options like approaches and options for cover in various environments. As much as you want to think of Infantry as some blunt fist pounding the opponent's skull, we're actually the precision scalpel that delicately cuts out the cancer. You always have fixed elements and mobile elements."
At first Eagle found it difficult to get past his own training as an AH pilot, which had more of an assault support mission. A couple of well placed missile strikes and the compound would be rubble, but even he recognized there were situations in which that level of destruction was undesirable. Taking a defensible position from the enemy altered the battlefront and allowed them to pull in supply, support and more combat troops. Dumbo was right, war was a game of chess and positioning your pieces allowed strategic deployment that could cost the enemy far more than any losses your own side would incur.
"Look," Assmunch had explained with a sardonic grin, "Infantry thinks on the ground. But you've been conditioned to think from the air, which I think is useful, so don't stop. We need your perspective, it helps us from getting tunneled. Don't get me wrong, a LOT of what we do requires us to ONLY think in terms of ground assaults, but every now and then that becomes a limitation to our planning. So speak up if we've missed something. And we aren't usually told about about the air support part and we're expected to act without that knowledge. Our missions and objectives are limited to small, direct moves in comparison to the bigger picture. That's on purpose, we're not supposed to have a bigger strategy in our stupid grunt mush brains. If the Army wanted us to have smarts, we'd be issued `em." That last part was a direct quote from Sergeant Walters.
So, Eagle trusted Chunk and Dumbo. Still, he would have felt better about their chances of success if Assmunch and Bootlicker had planned their strategy. This Hurry up and Wait was giving him anxiety.