Blind Eyes, Black Hearts - A GWOT Story (On Hold)

Chapter 3, Part 1: Camp Bastion

CHAPTER 3

Rodent

Task Force 105

Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

June 2007

Rodent heard the knocks on his door. His name was being called. “Rodent,” the American from the other side knocked for the second time. Rodent, his room in complete darkness, walked towards the door and switched on the lights next to the door, and opened the thick wooden door.

It was the short-built golden-haired Master Sergeant Ewart. He was dubbed as Velcro by his friends and Rodent himself, wearing the now severely improved gray-green ACU Uniform that proved a bit useful in some parts of Afghanistan’s harsh terrain. Not as good as the new multicam camouflage, but it would do, Rodent thought, it would do.

Rodent was badly out of uniform. He usually woke up late, rarely put on ‘base-appropriate’ uniform, and didn’t cut his hair. If it wasn’t for his position in TF 105, which put him not more than Private Military Contractor units in appearance or discipline, he would have already been fired from the army. He was also dirty. Coffee spills were on his green t-shirt, and he was without camouflage pants; he was in his white boxers when Velcro knocked on the door, and despite having the time to shower all morning, he wasn’t dressed up. Obviously there was a meeting today, and that’s why Velcro would appear in front of his room, but what meeting? Major-General Roberts, his commander, dubbed as Warlord in radio transmissions, didn’t give any info on the team’s network which was viewable from his laptop.

“What the hell happened to you, sir?” Velcro asked, seeing his commander in such a bad appearance, below even the lowest military standards.

“Internet, coffee, sleep.” Rodent said. He has not been out of his room for nearly a week, and only got out when he needed some food. Sometimes he would ask passing enlisted soldiers, mostly British, to fetch him some food. The soldiers usually agree to take the food for him, and in the end they got paid fifteen pounds for it, which was a lot for just taking some food from the Mess hall.

“Did the same thing, Skip. Difference is I took a bath.” He sarcastically smiled.

It took some time for Rodent to realize that Velcro was carrying a file.

“That from Roberts?” Rodent asked.

“Yup. And it means some pretty serious shit for us.”

“What’s inside it?”

“Let’s talk about this at Mess, eh? See you there. Just find the dudes in ACUs.” Camp Bastion was a British base, and the British wore Desert Camo DPMs, and not American ACUs, which have an ultimately different pattern. And color.

“Don’t forget to dress the fuck up, sir.” He pat the larger man on the upper arm and continued walking through the white corridor, through the doorway, and into the glaring Afghan sun.

Gotta need some fucking sunglasses for this.

So Rodent took a quick warm bath with soap and shampoo, for he had not a bath in days, put on his British desert camouflage uniform, and set out. He didn’t forget to slide his sidearm holder, along with the sidearm itself, on his thigh and also took his black Ray-Ban Aviators next to his laptop.

When he went out of his room, It felt like the floor was different. It was white and clean, and when he looked back at his room it was like a jungle. Even though he’d put the clothes in the laundry box, it still looked like a jungle. But who the hell cares? At least he remembers everything that was in there.

Rodent walked through the double glass doors of the officers’ quarters proudly with his aviators on his eyes and DPM camo on his body, along with the Mark 23 Pistol on his right thigh. The outside world was absolutely different than a week ago. New tents had been erected, and there were a lot more soldiers than it used to. Housing trailers, probably owned by Private Military Contractors (PMCs) and Security Companies were seen in the distance, beyond the always-busy but considerably small runway of Camp Bastion. Soldiers were chattering in their second-level discipline uniforms. British soldiers wearing only berets and in their t-shirts were sitting around on their Land Rovers’ hoods and on makeshift benches. Some were repairing their Land Rovers’ engines, and near a pile of sandbags and a tall cover of leaves on top of it, two soldiers were watching something on a laptop.

It was lively, and somehow it was more crowded. Rodent finally found out about why it was so crowded when he heard that Camp Bastion had undergone renovation and expansion. The runway was extended, and Camp Bastion was expanded more than a mile westwards. Rodent hoped the food was improved as well.

Rodent entered the Mess Hall, which was not more than a huge air conditioned tent that had more than 100 tables and a kitchen, bordered by a clumsy piece of wooden furniture. He went straight to the food line to get his fair share of food. The one who served was a chubby sergeant with black hair, which was covered with a plastic bag so that the food would not be contaminated by whatever was in his hair.

“Morning, sergeant.” Rodent said, sunglasses still on his eyes, making him look cocky as hell.

“Morning, uhh… sir!” the man replied, looking at the velcroed rank on his sleeves.

“What we got for today?” He looked down at the food. It was lasagna, and the sergeant sliced a square of really thick lasagna, and dropped it onto the captain’s dish. Mash potatoes was next, and the sergeant took a portion of it and dropped it onto Rodent’s dish. Plastic bottles of sauce was on the end of that, and Rodent, an ardent admirer of chili, put some chili sauce onto the edge of his square, tray-like dish, and walked away from the line, taking a paper glass of water on the way.

Rodent saw his team when he turned- Two men in gray and the other two in desert DPMs- were sitting and chattering as they chewed on their lasagna. He went closer and Gaz, nearly forever with his hat on, noticed him coming closer and stood up as a sign of salute. The others followed and stood up in as well. Ark still had food in his mouth, and Velcro had a napkin on his neck.

Rodent went to the table’s head, where a chair stood unseated, and put his lasagna and mash-potatoes on the table. Rodent playfully sat down, took off his sunglasses, picked up his fork and spoon, and dug into his food.

Jokingly, he looked up, his men still standing, and said, “I thought you forgot about me.” He chuckled.

The team laughed easily, remembering that their captain had been away for nearly a week.

“At ease, lads.” Rodent said, and the four stood down.

After they finished eating, Rodent broke the silence. “Now what’s with Roberts?”

Velcro was the first to answer. “This.” The American tapped the file in front of Rodent and Rodent took and opened the file. He couldn’t find anything but a piece of paper saying ‘1200 Hours, my office. MG Roberts, 105.’

“What the hell is this?” said the Englishman, rather upset.

“General Roberts says that it’s for you. He said that you and a couple other One-Oh-Five commanders are supposed to gather at his office before lunchtime today.” Velcro replied.

“Why didn’t he put it on the network?” Rodent asked.

“Bloody NSA and MI-5, sir.” Gaz coldly replied. His ice-cold and calm voice a signature. “They’re tracking every single trace of comms in the world. But they ain’t trackin’ paperwork. So Roberts put it in a bloody paper.”

Great, Roberts’ going all classic now, eh? What next, muskets in place of our carbines?

“Very well. 1200 at the boss’ office. Will do.” Rodent said. He looked at his watch. 0940 Hours.

Now what in bleeding hell am I supposed to do now?

So he ate.

***