My Classmate is a Killer (Unfinished)

Chapter 3: Behind the Scenes

As the General dismissed the operators, Captain Davis stays behind with the General. The General, disgruntled, gestured for Captain Davis to speak.

"Well? Spit it out, son. I don't have telekinesis, you know." The General smudges his cigarette against the ceramic table, extinguishing it. Captain Davis sighs and brushes his hair back. He rests his hands on the table in a fist and speaks.

"With all due respect, sir, we have no idea what kind of trap we are heading into. Our squad is experienced, no doubt, but a full-on assault of their HQ is a suicide mission. There has to be another viable option." The General leans back in his chair, nodding in acknowledgement of this fact. In all of his years of experience, he should know a trap when he sees one. And this attack is nothing short of that. The General suddenly rises from his chair and walks over to a wooden display cabinet, his war medals and purple hearts housed safely, the thin glass shielding the golden treasures virtually transparent. Despite the cabinet's worn appearance, the medals within are beaming brightly like a morning sun, emitting an aura of both honour and nostalgia. The General removes his green beret and clutches it with his left hand.

"Captain, do you know the difference between civilians and soldiers?" Captain Davis ponders the question and shakes his head. The General, without turning around, speaks again, his hoarse voice riddled with dryness with each word uttered.

"Civilians fear death. Soldiers learn to live with it."

***

Captain Davis, squatting on the edge of the helicopter, stares into the pitch-black forest, the outline of trees barely contrasting with the horizon, the words of the General still echoing in his mind despite the hours passed. Will I be the reason these men die? Will I be able to live with that? Seeing their bloodied faces on the shoreline, their bodies riddled with holes? With every passing thought or question, Davis tightens his grip on his rifle. Behind him, his squad chats amongst themselves, eager to face some opposition after months of pointless drills and tedious inspections. Captain Davis returns to his seat, his face, riddled with signs of paranoia, concealed with his black half-balaclava. A young yet mature voice is suddenly audible on comms, the source being the operator opposite Davis.

"All good, captain? You haven't said a word since we took off." Davis looks at the man in similar gear to him, albeit without the red stripes on his shoulder which bears the rank of Captain. Davis, not wanting to spook the young trooper, clears his throat quickly and responds confidently.

"All good, Scotty. Just a little tired from the briefing. The General knows how to give one helluva boring meeting." Scotty laughs, his emerald eyes being the only visible feature on his face given the balaclava and helmet he had donned. Scotty, being the breacher of the squad, besides the SAS standard-issued gear, kevlar vest, ammunition pouches and helmet also had several pouches of C4 and breaching charges on his chest. Slung across his chest was an HK G36 kitted out with a grenade launcher. From afar, you would think he would be the slowest of the group when in actuality, he could probably give Usain Bolt a run for his money.

A trooper next to him grunts and nudges Scotty in the side, only causing Scotty to further chuckle. The trooper, clad in modified SAS armour, looked like a mountain in comparison to the small Scotty. This was in fact Snowball. Besides the hulking suit of armour he wore, also donned a Maska-1 spray-painted dark blue, in order to better camouflage with his surroundings. Within the six-foot-five giant's grip was an L7A2 GPMG with a bipod attached underneath. Being the tank of the group, Snowball was meant for crowd control and roles related to the suppression of fire and being a general bullet sponge. When asked how it felt taking rounds of 7.62 to the chest directly, he replied: "Felt like Snowballs."

"Well Captain, when this is all over, I know a nice pub we can stop by in London," an older voice chimes in, checking the chamber of his rifle. "It would be nice to catch a Scotch beer when this is all over." The man sitting to the left of him was Alan, the marksman/sniper of the group. Alan, due to his role, carried less gear than the rest, save for his suppressed L96A1 rifle and lüger.

"Only if it has Liverpool vee City on, then I'll come along. If not, I'm staying home, thanks," another voice states to the right of Captain Davis, busy with a tablet, the white gleam of the screen reflecting off his visor.

"Ah, can it Luft. City's winning anyway," Scotty says mockingly. Luft shakes his head and sighs, and continues to type on his tablet. Luft was begrudgingly forced into the role of field radioman, despite his lack of overall physique. Luft, being the shortest of the men, looked on the verge of being squished by his radio pack every time he took cover. Honestly, it was a miracle he even managed to sit comfortably on the seat in the helicopter. Besides the radio pack, Luft carried his trusted HK G3 to every battle he took part in, occasionally swapping out his muzzle brake with a suppressor.

Captain Davis' frown suddenly vanishes, replaced with a smile of hope and honour. This is my team. My squad. I won't let them down. Davis stands up suddenly, and looks out the helicopter door, seeing the long horizontal line of helicopters parallel to them, all gunning towards their objective. Time to fuck shit up.

***

Sometimes I really miss being shot at. I sigh and stretch. Homework is a bitch. Finally, after 2 long, gruelling hours, I have finished my assignments due next month. Yes, next month. It doesn't hurt to be prepared, right? Being in the SAS, they teach you the art of preparation and time management, skills convenient for school.

I lie on the couch and open my phone, revealing the lock screen wallpaper of me and my former squad, all in SAS uniforms, holding up peace signs. I sigh, reminiscing about the old days. Not to say they were better, but at least more familiar to me. I suddenly get a text message from Mark, the message in all-caps reads:

"JORDAN. HANGOUT RN AT MY PLACE. WANNA COME?"

I groan. School just finished for the week. Have I not socialised enough? That was one thing the SAS forgot to teach us. How to be human. I'm convinced I have spent more time shooting targets than meeting girls at this point. I ponder for a moment, before replying.

"Sure. 10 minutes."

The response came almost instantaneously.

"Nice :D Dw, Lily is here ;)"

I put down my phone and change my clothes, donning a sports jacket and jeans instead of my casual home wear. Lily, huh? Me and Lily have gotten to know each other a lot better over time, though I think that she's been doing most of the work. I barely know how to initiate a conversation. For some reason, she seems very determined to know me better, despite me being the polar opposite of a human magnet. Maybe she's a family friend? I put on my headphones and walk out of the apartment, a cool wind brushing over my face as my eyes adjust to the light of a London winter afternoon. As I walk down the grey stone pavement littered with cigarette butts and tissue paper, I contemplate my progress at school. I've made friends, at least. Mark, despite his outgoing, brash nature is a good friend. I wouldn't trust him with a bomb defusal, per se, but he is gradually becoming someone I can call a true friend. As far as I can tell, he definitely has a crush on Lily too.

As I walk up the stairs to Mark's house, I am instantly greeted by Mark's father and mother, who uncannily resemble their somewhat eccentric son. I greet them and try to take my jacket, to which I swiftly assure them I will suffice. They don't need to find the pocket knife I have in there anyway. As I make my way up the stairs, I can already hear thunderous laughter muffled by a door.