Traitors (Damned of the 2/19th - Book Five) - Finished

Best Friend? Girlfriend?

2/19th Special Weapons Group Barracks
Restricted Area - Western Germany
Early Winter - 1986
Day: Fifteen

Breakfast was hot, sausage and eggs out of a tin that had been dunked in boiling water for 15 minutes then handed out. The PFC who dumped the mess on my green mess tray had glared at me, but I'd glared back and he'd looked away. I was eating the same way as a lot of my fellow Rear-D troops. Tray in my lap, left arm curled protectively around it, constantly watching my surroundings, and spooning it into my mouth quickly.

We were divided into four groups. The smallest was Sergeant Tee, who sat by himself, his back against the wall, staring at everyone. I didn't like the way his eyes looked. Too glittery, moving around too much, narrowing too often. I half expected a sound track to start playing villain music. Every crash, scream, moan, or sobbing wail made him flinch.

He was all alone up on the NCO section of the 4th floor.

The next smallest was Nagle, Bomber, and me. I had my knives hiden, Nagle had the pistol, and Bomber had the M-16A1 on his lap. Nagle ate demurely, staring down at her tray, smiling slightly to herself, snuggled up close to Bomber. Bomber and I glared at the others and each other, and when I glared at Bomber or looked at Nagle for too long her put one hand on his weapon till I looked away.

It looked like we couldn't trust each other any longer.

The second largest group was sullen. Not speaking to each other or anyone else. Just eating quickly and leaving as soon as they were done, back to their room. The sullen attitude, the silence, all hit my mental alarms. A bitching soldier is a happy soldier. These guys and gals didn't say a word. Just left in a trickle.

Most of them were in their room by themselves.

The largest group was the LT's. Eight of them all gathered up, smiling at everyone, laughing and talking among each other. They had chairs that the LT had allowed them to pull out of the dayroom.

They had the run of the barracks.

Sergeant Tee stood up, sliding the tray across the floor to bump into the stack, glancing at the LT and his little group of flunkies, his lip curling.

"Hey, Sergeant Tee." I said, and he jerked like I'd just shocked him.

"What?" More snarl than speech.

"Who's responsible for the generators?" I asked.

"Ask super-troop." He sneered, then went by me, his boots thudding. When he pulled open the stairwell door, cold air wafted across us and a sobbing moan drifted down the stairwell.

"What do you want?" The LT was polite, barely.

"Who's handling the generators?" I asked pleasantly. "We found out last winter that the fuel lines can freeze up if you don't run anti-ice measures at least every other day, and the big 80K generator has a tendency to accumulate ice in the secondary fuel filters, as well as the oil filter freezing up if you don't hit the heating coils every couple of days."

I was pulling it out of my ass. I didn't know jack or shit about those generators except that they were supposedly there this time.

"What?" Oakes asked.

"Yeah, if you don't run maintenance on them every couple days, it could throw a main buffer spring, or even the primary whang-bearing." Bomber popped in. "Hell, last winter Generator-Six caught on fire, part of what happened in here. We almost lost the south side of the barracks."

Everyone in the LT's group looked at each other.

"Which one of you knows how to do maintenance and PMCS on the generators?" the LT asked. He'd started rubbing his rank while I was talking. None of his little cadre volunteered, and I smiled widely, letting him see my broken teeth. "None of you?" He looked at me, narrowing his eyes. "Stillwater knows. Oakes, Kebble, Nelson, Marks, you four take him down there, have him run PMCS on the generators."