All he can hear is the drone of the planes, close overhead. Busy insects looking for their hive, buzzing over the countryside, minding their own business, except they shouldn’t, and they aren’t, and let’s do the Time Warp again….
The sound of the engines turns into the rattle of the coffee machine as he snaps back awake, elbows propped on the desk. Fluorescent glare in his eyes. His oldest, comfiest jeans and the softest shirt he could find (one of Jack’s, stolen) because his whole body still aches and he’s probably coming down with the flu, on top of everything else. Maybe he’ll take a day off, or a couple. The squad will call him a pussy - the ones that weren’t on the op this time. Those guys will keep their mouths shut. Christ, his back hurts. He stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders and taps the edge of the keyboard with his thumbs, except that hurts too. He might as well start typing again (and anyone who thinks that doesn’t hurt hasn’t been paying attention until this point).
Day 3, 1500. Probably. Here’s the thing: they spend 3 days approx. getting to the campsite, take out the target who thinks he’s Bear Grylls or some shit, then spend 3 more days hiking back to a border RV point deep in the fuck-huge woods (he’s always surprised by the size of the woods in Europe, no matter how many times he sees them). Except on day 3... he writes 'Shit Goes Down', then deletes it, no matter that it’s accurate. 'It happens'. Great tagline, not so great report material. Aircraft sighted. That’s it.
Aircraft sighted - heading… he can’t remember which way they were headed. Stinson has a better memory for that kind of thing - he might look like a sack of meat with a face, but he’s sharp on the details and a pro at aircraft ID. He was the one who looked up first (well, not first. Second) and said ‘hey, check it out’. And they did.
Identified as civilian: restorations of WW2-era fighters. There may have been a Spitfire among them, but he’s no expert; that’s really the only one he knows of. Stinson can fill that in later. All he remembers is the sound of them, bubbling through the valley, and the antique shapes overhead, for only a few seconds.
And that’s when Shit Went Down, but he deletes it once again. They didn’t realise anything had gone down, not then, until we proceed one-quarter km in an easterly direction, before we realise the stupid fucking dumbass isn’t following us. He’s just staring at the fucking sky. Like a dumbass. It’s a little unfair but it’ll have to do for now, until he thinks of a better description of the way the Asset was standing, frozen with his masked face tilted up to the direction of the retreating planes.
Verbal instruction given to re-form the group and continue en route. Essentially, he’d snapped at the Asset to move, and had been obeyed almost immediately. Almost. Delay observed in following instruction - several seconds. I didn’t think - he back-spaces, because it’s not appropriate to include I didn’t think it would be a problem. I didn’t know it would be a problem. I didn’t know.
He rubs his eyes with his hand and reaches for coffee, but at some point a gang of pixies must have come along and consumed it all. It’s a vicious cycle from now on: he doesn’t have the energy to get up and make more, because said energy would come from coffee. Which he doesn’t have. A sigh breaks from him, just as it had before, when 2000: we establish camp at co-ordinates [check the GPS log and put these in I don’t fucking know]. Signal sent to confirm target successfully eliminated, personnel uninjured. Asset responsive but slow: looking at the sky (which was dark by then, beginning to speckle with stars).
Personnel make sleeping arrangements for as much sleep as you can have with a fucking tree root in your ass and one layer of netting between you and Mother Nature’s big old cu- and he wipes the sentence and stops it at 'arrangements' instead. They were all tucked in the shadow of a fallen tree, in a covered miniature trench, in their sleeping bags. Thankfully dry. Ready for a few hours’ down time until dawn.
Approx. 0100. The Asset turns over onto my fucking arm. I was sleeping. We were all trying to fucking sleep and he looks me in the eye - I think, fuck if I know cos it’s dark - and says....
Approx. 0100, day 4. Without prompting, the Asset addresses me as ‘sir’ and asks where ‘they’ (referring to previously spotted aircraft) were headed. Agent Stinson responds with ‘probably some re-enactment thing, there are a few around [town or city]’. Asset appears confused - he probably had that little frown on his face, above the mask and begins to question further. I advise that he shut the fuck up. Agent Stinson shuts the fuck up. Asset does not obey instruction and asks whether ‘the business on the Eastern Front is over yet'.
What were you supposed to say to that?
Agent Stinson uses concealed light source and determines the Asset to be sleep-talking. I wake him up with application of minimal force to the ribs. Personnel are instructed to ignore further speech, and take action if necessary to eliminate noise.
0700, day 4. We set out for next waypoint. Asset responding to orders as normal and appears not to remember anything of the night. Not that we fucking asked.
Approx. 0730. Movement sighted ahead, revealed to be single wild deer. Unprompted, Asset comments that ‘the wild boar round here, they’re fuckin’ huge’. Not that we fucking asked.
Agent Kawamura raises weapon in direction of deer, I caution him not to be so fucking stupid. He stows weapon, and is advised unprompted by Asset not to ‘bring Jerry down on us’. Agent Kawamura questions the identity of ‘Jerry’. Agent Stinson suggests Agent Kawamura take a Remedial History class. Asset looks at Agent Kawamura like he’s a dumbass, which he is sometimes, but that’s not the fucking point.
Fill: Make Your Puppet Dance 1/?
The sound of the engines turns into the rattle of the coffee machine as he snaps back awake, elbows propped on the desk. Fluorescent glare in his eyes. His oldest, comfiest jeans and the softest shirt he could find (one of Jack’s, stolen) because his whole body still aches and he’s probably coming down with the flu, on top of everything else. Maybe he’ll take a day off, or a couple. The squad will call him a pussy - the ones that weren’t on the op this time. Those guys will keep their mouths shut. Christ, his back hurts. He stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders and taps the edge of the keyboard with his thumbs, except that hurts too. He might as well start typing again (and anyone who thinks that doesn’t hurt hasn’t been paying attention until this point).
Day 3, 1500. Probably. Here’s the thing: they spend 3 days approx. getting to the campsite, take out the target who thinks he’s Bear Grylls or some shit, then spend 3 more days hiking back to a border RV point deep in the fuck-huge woods (he’s always surprised by the size of the woods in Europe, no matter how many times he sees them). Except on day 3... he writes 'Shit Goes Down', then deletes it, no matter that it’s accurate. 'It happens'. Great tagline, not so great report material. Aircraft sighted. That’s it.
Aircraft sighted - heading… he can’t remember which way they were headed. Stinson has a better memory for that kind of thing - he might look like a sack of meat with a face, but he’s sharp on the details and a pro at aircraft ID. He was the one who looked up first (well, not first. Second) and said ‘hey, check it out’. And they did.
Identified as civilian: restorations of WW2-era fighters. There may have been a Spitfire among them, but he’s no expert; that’s really the only one he knows of. Stinson can fill that in later. All he remembers is the sound of them, bubbling through the valley, and the antique shapes overhead, for only a few seconds.
And that’s when Shit Went Down, but he deletes it once again. They didn’t realise anything had gone down, not then, until we proceed one-quarter km in an easterly direction, before we realise the stupid fucking dumbass isn’t following us. He’s just staring at the fucking sky. Like a dumbass. It’s a little unfair but it’ll have to do for now, until he thinks of a better description of the way the Asset was standing, frozen with his masked face tilted up to the direction of the retreating planes.
Verbal instruction given to re-form the group and continue en route. Essentially, he’d snapped at the Asset to move, and had been obeyed almost immediately. Almost. Delay observed in following instruction - several seconds. I didn’t think - he back-spaces, because it’s not appropriate to include I didn’t think it would be a problem. I didn’t know it would be a problem. I didn’t know.
He rubs his eyes with his hand and reaches for coffee, but at some point a gang of pixies must have come along and consumed it all. It’s a vicious cycle from now on: he doesn’t have the energy to get up and make more, because said energy would come from coffee. Which he doesn’t have. A sigh breaks from him, just as it had before, when 2000: we establish camp at co-ordinates [check the GPS log and put these in I don’t fucking know]. Signal sent to confirm target successfully eliminated, personnel uninjured. Asset responsive but slow: looking at the sky (which was dark by then, beginning to speckle with stars).
Personnel make sleeping arrangements for as much sleep as you can have with a fucking tree root in your ass and one layer of netting between you and Mother Nature’s big old cu- and he wipes the sentence and stops it at 'arrangements' instead. They were all tucked in the shadow of a fallen tree, in a covered miniature trench, in their sleeping bags. Thankfully dry. Ready for a few hours’ down time until dawn.
Approx. 0100. The Asset turns over onto my fucking arm. I was sleeping. We were all trying to fucking sleep and he looks me in the eye - I think, fuck if I know cos it’s dark - and says....
Approx. 0100, day 4. Without prompting, the Asset addresses me as ‘sir’ and asks where ‘they’ (referring to previously spotted aircraft) were headed. Agent Stinson responds with ‘probably some re-enactment thing, there are a few around [town or city]’. Asset appears confused - he probably had that little frown on his face, above the mask and begins to question further. I advise that he shut the fuck up. Agent Stinson shuts the fuck up. Asset does not obey instruction and asks whether ‘the business on the Eastern Front is over yet'.
What were you supposed to say to that?
Agent Stinson uses concealed light source and determines the Asset to be sleep-talking. I wake him up with application of minimal force to the ribs. Personnel are instructed to ignore further speech, and take action if necessary to eliminate noise.
0700, day 4. We set out for next waypoint. Asset responding to orders as normal and appears not to remember anything of the night. Not that we fucking asked.
Approx. 0730. Movement sighted ahead, revealed to be single wild deer. Unprompted, Asset comments that ‘the wild boar round here, they’re fuckin’ huge’. Not that we fucking asked.
Agent Kawamura raises weapon in direction of deer, I caution him not to be so fucking stupid. He stows weapon, and is advised unprompted by Asset not to ‘bring Jerry down on us’. Agent Kawamura questions the identity of ‘Jerry’. Agent Stinson suggests Agent Kawamura take a Remedial History class. Asset looks at Agent Kawamura like he’s a dumbass, which he is sometimes, but that’s not the fucking point.
Agent Rollins asks the Asset what year it is.
The crazy fucker says 1943.