Bunker-38
FSTS-317/NATO Site 93 AKA Atlas
Classified Location
Edge of the 1K Zone
Fulda Gap, Western Germany
19 August, 1986
1520
I had to piss, bad, the urine bag attached to the catheter long since filled; sweat was running down my face, forcing me to blink away the sweat that kept stinging my eyes; my nose kept itching no matter how often I rubbed it against the Velcro just below the transparent face-shield of the armored J-Suit; my muscles were trembling with fatigue and a loss of potassium from working in the suit for over six hours straight; and my mouth was dry, the two quart water container emptied two weapons ago. All in all, I was having a miserable afternoon.
The enriched uranium core finally came free of the struts, letting me pull it out of the warhead so I could turn and put it in the lined container.
The weapon's warheads had too many micro-fractures to be stable. Maybe not that particular one, but the lot number had an unacceptable rate of micro-fractures in the fissionable material so all of them had to be pulled and sent back for reconditioning. Once I was sure the heavy little sphere was properly nestled in I closed the heavy metal crate and locked the hasps.
Working quickly I reassembled the artillery shell and then put my tools away in my hip bag.
Done.
I motioned to the two privates who had been assigned to my squad, Perkins and Brace, and the two men moved in, each grabbing a handle on either end of the heavily armored box with both hands and lifting it up. I waddled out behind them, heat exhaustion sapping my strength.
As soon as I was outside of the bunker I started pulling off the suit, urgency lending me the strength to get out of the sixty-pound suit. As soon as I was free Stokes handed me a damp towel and I wiped between my thighs.
"Anything major?" I asked when I was finished, handing back the towel.
"Cromwell sent a message," She said.
"Oh?"
"She wanted me to tell you that she hopes you burn in Hell for sending her to Special Weapons training," she grinned.
"She's a sweet girl," I chuckled. Stokes laughed with me, handing me my BDU pants. I got dressed quickly, holding still long enough for the big Amazon to take an ampule of blood, feeling lighter even though I'd packed on thirty pounds of gear.
"Henley called," She told me as we walked toward the Gypsy Wagon.
"Anything important?" I asked.
"The commander of 1/68th Armor wants a detachment from Atlas to handle the ammunition for main gun qualification for his tankers," She told me.
"We can do that," I told her.
"Finally, three people have failed their levels testing," She told me as I climbed in the back of the Gypsy Wagon. As soon as her big Mid-West Amazon ass was in the back I banged on the bed with my XM-16E1. Foster fired it up and we began heading uprange.
"Who?" I asked her.
"Bomber," She said.
I got the feeling of deja-vu.
"Nagle," She said. She paused for a second.
"Me," I said.
She nodded.
I pulled my rucksack around and put my back against it, staring up at the clear blue August sky.
"No problem. Are we over radiation limits?" I asked her, putting my boots up on the tailgate.
"No."
"Then we know who's going to support 1/68th, don't we?" I laughed.
Not a bad start for the next seven years.
YOU ARE READING
Dog Days of Summer (Damned of the 2/19th Book Four) - Finished
ActionCorporal Stillwater, US Army, has defined himself by his military accomplishments since enlisting, seeking to put his upbringing and past behind him. However, his family has other plans, plans that involve returning Anthony Stillwater to little more...
