The Early Years: Pt. 1
Staff Sergeant Hart
Staff Sergeant Hart
Over companywide communications, Owen was affectionately called “Blondie.” He personally hated the nickname. He preferred his last nickname "deadeye." They had called him that (short for deadeye dick) for two reasons. For one, he was a bit of a virtuoso shot in his days as the designated marksman. Secondly, he always “got the booty,” which was referring to Owen’s inordinate success in getting women to sleep with him. Way better than Blondie.
Everybody had a nickname. The communications encryption couldn’t always be trusted, so it was for security reasons. Though, if it was entirely about security they would have rotating names or randomly assigned names. But that wasn’t so. Once you got your nickname, you were stuck with it until you ranked. If you ranked. Owen, as it were, had recently been promoted to Staff Sergeant and had graduated to “Blondie." With his rank, Owen cross trained into the ‘infantry reconnaissance corps’ which was Covenant bullshit for basically ‘those assassin guys’ or the ‘sketchy mission guys.’ Everyone called them Spec-R for ‘special recon.’
“Blondie this is L2 check your 1. We’ve got an unidentified shadow on imaging. Verify.” L2 was the Second Lieutenant who got his plain nickname from his hardass style of leadership. He was the one who would comment on whether your uniform was within regs. Not that he cared for rules. He just liked to stick it to his subordinates. L2 was calling Owen’s recon assignment from a remote location. He watched the operation from a very early generation drone with a pretty weak ass camera. Owen was pissed at the Second Lieutenant for this assignment. He had been paired with a new recruit who hadn’t even fired a gun in combat before. The new recruit was his only support other than L2’s eyes and young man was stationed 50 yards away to Owen’s rear left. He didn’t know that the point of this assignment was to a) to test his nerve, and b) to punish him for his continued insolence towards commanding officers. Yes, the Covenant leadership could be that petty.
Owen popped a green apple Jolly Rancher into his mouth and discarded the clear wrapper on the ground. Everyone had their superstitious things. The sweet green candies were a sort of good luck charm, for him. He had been in position for more than an hour already and was bored as hell. He lowered the night vision monocular. “This is Blondie roger that...” Came Owen’s response crackling over the radio. He was on foot in the ‘kill zone.’ The ‘kill zone’ was a small abandoned hamlet in coastal Turkey that had housed not more than 150 people in a wereleopard clan. It was a ‘kill zone’ because Owen had open directives to execute all remaining adults, no matter their allegiance. It was a clean-up job. He peaked out from behind a ruined brick wall and raised the M4 to peer through the sights. “Enemy vehicle at my 1 in sights. It’s a private security issued armored humvee. Pimped out with a Resistance turret!” He paused to raise his gun again, “Can’t get a positive id something’s weird about it. Over.”
“L2 to Blondie. Any combatants?”
“Fuck if I know, L2! I wasn’t issued the thermals I requested. Although the turret is--" He was cut off by the young recruit.
"This is LittleBrother engaging support fire!” Owen fell to the ground flattening himself prone on his belly to avoid being struck by any negligent rounds from the idiot firing. The new recruit was wielding the .50 cal and hammering the vehicle he had just been identifying. “Yea! Eat shit!”
“Fuck me! Fuck! Hold your fire! You fuckin' moron!” Owen yelled over the comm choking on his Jolly Rancher. The firing stopped. He spit the green candy into the dirt. “I was saying I think the vehicle is disabled! The turret is facing north and already destroyed that’s why I can’t get a positive id. Just watch your fuckin’ sector on the left Littlebrother and don’t fuckin’ shoot towards me. Shit!" He righted himself and dusted off. "Approaching the vehicle now." He trotted quickly with his rifle raised and ready to fire should he meet any combatants.
“L2 to Blondie. Stay frosty! Littlebrother do not engage unless requested by your superior!”
“Roger L2. My bad.” Said the recruit good naturedly. He was happy to have discharged his weapon finally. Owen didn’t answer.
“Whatcha got Blondie?”
“Not a goddamn thing but wasted rounds in a disabled vehicle. L2 interrogative: Can I get close air support? My cover is blown to hell here.” Owen kneeled behind the humvee and swept his field with the weapon.
"Negative Blondie."
"Requesting additional armored ground escort, then. I’m sitting here with my balls hanging out, Lieutenant!" He remained in his vigilant posture waiting to be attacked. His heart was pounding.
"Negative. Littlebrother’s got your 6. No additional support. The Brass said you were some kinda extra special edition elite professional Blondie. I hope you don’t have to engage with these real hard motherfuckers out here who don’t get their panties knotted over fancy scopes and extra support. Cut your bitching and push through.”
The grainy film produced by the early model drone showed Owen slapping his hand against the ruined vehicle door in frustration, pulling the radio away from his mouth, and lifting the monocular to scrub a gloved hand over his face.
“I've lost comm with Blondie. Visual intact." The technician informed the L2. Not moments later Owen re-engaged the radio.
“Blondie remain engaged with comm at all times. Proceed with recon we’re on a tight string here. It’s time to get your shit together!"
Owen rolled his eyes. "Roger that L2." He proceeded carefully opening the doors to inspect various dwellings. “Clearing D1.” He whispered into the radio, not that his presence was a secret anymore with the previous racket and his own yelling. Each dwelling was identified by a letter and a number signifying a grid on their objective map. The technician would green the cleared homes on his screen for the 2nd LT’s benefit. Neither of the men in the field had a fancy map; they had bulky paper maps that neither had time to fumble with. Really the operatives were expected to memorize the field. Those with poor memories or lazy study habits often met an early grave.
A clan of Persian wereleopards called the ‘Sadanians’ were moving through Covenant occupied territory in Turkey. They had been led over the Black Sea from Ukraine by a man who called himself ‘The GodFather.’ He apparently had an affinity for American gangster films and fancied himself a Corleone figure. Owen rather liked the guy from what he knew of him. Thought he was a real badass. His intention was to return his people to Iran from where they had fled a decade or so ago. They intended to link up with their larger root tribe there. Owen’s objective was to clear the village one of his so-called ‘gangs’ had recently ‘occupied’ and execute any stragglers. He was on orders to execute any adult remaining in the village. Even locals due to their potential as informants against the Covenant’s operations.
Although the Covenant occupied Turkey, the country was not a part of the pact. They were sovereign, on rocky terms with the Covenant leadership, and would not appreciate military operations involving anyone connected to their Iranian trading partners. Including those of the controversial Sadanian clan. Besides, anybody who knew anything knew that the ‘controversy’ was media bullshit. Owen knew the truth as to why the village was abandoned. That was the product of the psyops team that came in before him. Of course, the media headlines tomorrow would say the Sadanian clan ransacked the town.
The Sadanian clan that had been evading the Covenant’s authority for near a century, nevermind the struggle of the past decade. Owen didn’t think anything was changing with the Covenant’s authority over them anytime soon. They were determined to be free of the organization’s influence. And Owen didn’t see the tactical significance for the Covenant’s pursuit of them. They didn’t pose a real threat except to the Covenant’s so-called ‘impeccable’ authority. Not that Owen’s opinion on the matter was worth anything to anybody.
Over the course of two hours, Owen had executed three stragglers. Two of which were together and already wounded. He now exchanged fire with a fourth man who popped in and out of a building’s window. He loved a good firefight. Got his heart racing and afterwards when he found out that he hadn’t died every breath felt sweeter than before. Finally with one carefully placed three round burst Owen took the other man down. It couldn’t have come sooner as he was starting to feel muscle fatigue from constantly holding his weapon to his face. He was sweating profusely and well beyond ready to wrap the mission. “Target down in B12. No further movement detected. Approaching.” Littlebrother hadn’t done anything but ‘watch his 6.’
He entered the home and was moving aside a bed that had been pushed to block a doorway, when he felt something sharp and crushing clasp onto his leg. He cried out in pain as he was pulled to the floor. He landed on his stomach on top of his rifle which bruised his ribs with the force of his body falling. He gasped for air and writhed around to find a relatively small leopard with its mouth firmly around his calf. “Enemy contact!” He shouted into his radio. “I’m down L2!” He groaned painfully and grasped his rifle in shaking hands. He used the butt of the weapon to clock the cat right between the eyes. It released his leg and backed up hissing. “Engaged.” His voice was more calm despite the brutalizing pain coming from his leg. “Sustained injuries.” Just as he was raising the rifle the cat transformed before his eyes into a scrawny little girl. She couldn’t have been older than 11, with tangled black hair. She rubbed at her bruising forehead with filthy hands as tears rolled down her face. The salty liquid cleared a runway of dirt from her tawny cheeks. She stared at him with burning eyes. Owen realized with no small amount of horror that he’d probably killed her father before her very eyes not moments ago.
“L2 to Blondie confirm execution.”
“Blondie to L2. Correction. Contact made with civilian, female child. Maybe 10 or so.” He paused staring at the sobbing girl. “She’s surrendering. Interrogative: Can I get a medical evac?” It was a lie, she was not at all indicating surrender in the least. She was just crying pathetically, but Owen didn’t know what else to do with her. He certainly wouldn’t shoot her.
"Denied Blondie. Remove the threat. Proceed with recon."
"Negative L2. There is no threat. The child is surrendering. The ROE articles state I cannot execute anyone who surrenders to me in occupied territory. I'm taking her into my custody." He referenced the articles knowing full well how self-righteous he sounded. One thing his father had impressed upon him was ‘Know your rights, know your duties, know the purview of the law. You will be asked to cross lines, Owen. There will be times when you may have to cross lines. But the choice falls on you. The biggest favor you can do for yourself now, is be educated in preparation for those times.’
"NEGATIVE?” Roared L2 over the comm so loud that Owen reached up to pull the radio from his ear. He was left with a ringing sound. The vocal distortion was apparently audible to the girl, who jumped at the yelling and cowered. “Remove the threat. Proceed with recon. Now!"
"I cannot do that, sir." Was all Owen replied before disconnecting communication again. He slipped the strap to his rifle over his shoulder letting the weapon hang from his back. He spread his hands out showing her his palms. The universal non-threatening posture. Though posture aside Owen remained a large heavily armed man who had just likely killed the girl’s guardian. «Let me help you.» He tried speaking in Turkish first, betting she was likely from the local clan.
«Are you going to hurt me now, father?» She gazed at him with watery golden eyes.
As he suspected she was Turkish. ‘Father’ was as close to the word as a translation could come. It was really a slang term from the local dialect that children called all adult males who commanded a certain authority. They would often call their own father, a male teacher, a priest, and even a soldier the same word. That she would use the term to describe him wounded Owen a bit. That was because he misunderstood the word for an affectionate term. It wasn’t. He reached into his pockets and offered her some Jolly Ranchers smiling sadly, «I’m sorry what I’ve done, but I won’t hurt you. It isn’t safe for you here.»
The Covenant tried to sow the seeds of suspicion for all non-human creatures in their soldiers. The organization was primarily interested in promoting human interests in the world. Maintaining human power, politically, economically,and territory-wise was their primary objective. Though on the outside they played friendly with the ‘paras’ as they called non-humans. Short for ‘paranormals.’ Many knew the truth that unless the ‘paras’ played by Covenant rules, they would be targeted. Such brainwashing efforts were mostly lost on Owen, whose own mother had practiced shamanism. He had also been partly raised by a Lynx after his parents were murdered. Shit, even his secretary with whom he was currently engaged in an impassioned and intriguing affair was a Lynx herself. Perhaps his closeness to the extra-human species stayed his hand in killing the girl. Many other Covenant operatives likely wouldn’t have hesitated.
Minutes later Owen emerged from the building, grimacing and limping, carrying the girl who clung to his neck. He reestablished communication once he knew he was in sight of the drone overhead. “Surrenderee has been extracted from tactical location B12. Requesting medical evac.” He stated calmly into the radio staring right up into the night sky where he knew the drone was hovering although he couldn’t see it.
"We got Blondie back L2.” Came the technician’s voice.
“Blondie while you’re playing Red Cross rescue bullshit cutting comm we’ve got static from the north. Three pickups coming in hot. The operation is lost. Abort. I repeat abort. There will be no medical rescue. You’re on your own.” Of course Owen would be blamed for losing the mission despite having successfully cleared 90% of the hamlet.
Owen wheeled to the north with the girl in his arms. He could see the rising dust from the trucks approaching through his night vision monocular. He turned around and ran-limped with the girl towards his support who was already in the humvee drivers’ seat meaning Owen could expect little counterfire.
“Get your ass out of the kill zone Blondie!” Came Littlebrother’s voice, “They’re abandoning us!”
“Welcome to the Spec-R, kid.” He huffed, wincing in pain, as he entered the humvee stashing the girl in the back seat. Once a safe distance away, Owen squeezed Littlebrother’s shoulder, “You got your cherry popped tonight.” He laughed.
Later in the medical barracks, the Second Lieutenant was spotted laying into the insubordinate Staff Sergeant.
“Let me understand this, my 1st class Spec-R Staff Sergeant--who is supposed to quickly and effectively survey and neutralize danger for the RIF and coordinate with other elements of the infantry--disobeyed orders, sloppily executed his assignment to the failure of the objective, and has just been put out of commission by a baby werepanther bitch. Do I have that correct?”
“Wereleopard, sir. And the wounds are rather superficial. But essentially, that’s a fair summation, sir."
"Look around you blondie. You see any other Spec-Rs here?"
"No, sir. I do not."
"That's because you're supposed to be an elite motherfucker. These standard issue infantry pussies are supposed to look up to you and tremble. And here you are getting a fucking bed bath like you're at the spa?"
"Yessir."
“Don’t ‘yessir’ me with your regs quoting bullshit saving little girls act. I’m on to you.” While Lieutenant was laying into Owen, the blonde couldn’t stifle his laughter. He was snorting and grinning like an idiot. “What the fuck you laughing at?” The Lieutenant demanded
“Sir, I think you just called me a gentleman and a scholar. And I’m honored, sir!”
A medic laughed nearby.
"The General is watching you and me now, Blondie! And he is not fucking happy. There will be no more fuck ups from you!” The Lieutenant shouted into Owen’s face while the medics and other patients snickered nearby.
That was partly true. The General and other Covenant higher-ups were watching Owen after that, but they weren’t unhappy with the young officer. They were interested in grooming him for much higher ranks, if his penchant for rebelliousness could be refined into ‘take-no-shit-leadership.’ He was well liked by the others. And displayed excellent judgment when pressed to do otherwise. He displayed a mind for the bigger picture. The mission was secretly considered a success. Littlebrother publically recommended Owen for a Medal of Honor for good judgment in sparing the civilian life. The recommendation was suppressed and Owen was punished for his insubordination with extra grueling PT exercises and the most ludicrous assignments for months. The worst part of his punishment was watching the little girl be executed after a military tribunal that determined her an ‘informant.’
When the Major met with the General to discuss a potential assignment for Owen and scaling back his punishment the General scoffed, “Not yet. Can’t you see we’re grooming our prized fighting dog? Abuse him. Keep him hungry. Keep him angry. And he’ll be ready when we send him out next time.”
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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