DECODE ~ GHOST [Editing]

01| Denial

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Urzikstan, 2020; Recon and Intercept Mission.

Units: Alpha Team (Special Air Service)

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Birds chirped from the canopy of trees sat above the squad members, a sombre lullaby to match the dim atmosphere as it bounced around the soldiers sat either side of me. It was almost ghastly how unaware our surroundings were of the events we had meticulously planned for the past fortnight. We only knew how this would play out from our side, and that was if everything went to plan; Our target needed to be stood exactly where we had anticipated them to be, and we had to silently work as a unit to even the odds.

The forrest was peppered with mines, bear-traps, and a whole host of other things we were unable to anticipate before we actually got here. There were guards, improvised explosive devices, attack dogs, and whatever else laid waste in this shit-hole of the world we ended up in.

Putting it lightly, our odds were against us. But Lieutenant Bradford had faith in our ability, having hand selected the five of us for this very mission.

Often, military squads adorned nicknames, and ours was no different. Across the tours of duty we'd undertaken, we somehow adopted the name 'Suicide Squad' — Not to be confused with any literature depiction of the DC Anti-Heroes — comprised of myself and four other soldiers. Those four men had been with me through thick and thin, always at my side and following my every command. We were a well oiled unit that had known and worked alongside one another for years.

And, of course, in true military fashion, we'd been awarded nicknames. Each unique and significant to something we had done during our selected career paths. These were our identity, our names. Our 'real' names were only to be used in death, or in church on Sundays. Maybe they'd be used by your mother if you were lucky enough to still have one.

To the left of me, sat Milk. Chestnut eyes scanned over his assault rifle whilst tiny red ants crawled up his muscular arm and danced along the barrel of his rifle whilst he laid belly-down in the foliage. Beneath his sandy bleached-blond hair was a sheen of sweat, beads of which carved through the facial paint he wore and displaced the smear of green onto his brow in a veiny pattern. From what I knew of Milk, he'd grown up not far from me. Hell, we might have even gone to the same High School, though of course neither of us would utter a word of that to anyone else.

His jaw feathered as one of the ants made its way down towards the barrel of the weapon. Even if they were insects, Milk wouldn't kill anything that wasn't deserving of it. I'd seen the man well up when we'd hit a jackal in the outskirts Baghdad. In the end, I was the one to end its suffering.

Surprisingly, Milks nickname wasn't crude in origin. Instead, it came from when he was fresh into basic training as a measly seventeen year old. His older brother, and my first Sergeant at the time, Vinnie, had warned him against drinking the milk, but Milk thought he knew better. Of course, he hadn't figured out he was genuinely lactose intolerant. He'd thought it was just brotherly banter. That was until he'd drunk a gallon and a half of milk within ten minutes, and then brutally suffered the ill effects of it immediately afterwards.

Though not in my squad, Vinnie was someone I'd grown to like. Now a Lieutenant, he was overseeing our little excursions. He did a damn good job of keeping it clean, scraping our stain off the books and hiding our transgressions. Vinnie was basically a God to us, he was the one we begged forgiveness of, and he was the one who held our hands when we had been hurt. Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed back on the field whilst he healed from his leg amputation.