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

Honey Sweet Words

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

I kept one hand on the wall, following it around. Walking with snowshoes on was exhausting. Step, lift the foot, shake it, then put it down, repeat. You had to shake the snow off the snowshoes each time, or it made your traction worse, made the snowshoe heavier, and would exhaust you faster. In heavy winds, the wind just whipped through the laces of the snowshoe, and if you didn't shake the snow off, the wind would pull at the snowshoe, throwing you off balance.

After a few moments I reached the corner, and immediately had to climb. The angle was pretty steep when you were just walking along the ground during the clear seasons, but climbing the snow in the darkness, the wind, one hand trailing the side of the building, it felt like the snow was an almost vertical wall.

Finally it leveled out, and I turned the corner, right before tension on the 550 cord yanked me to a stop. Cursing, I reached down for the D-ring, unclipping it and letting it fall to the snow. I kept going, keeping my hand on the wall as I kept moving along the wall until I found some windows.

I didn't even bother with finesse, just bent my arm and slammed an elbow into the glass, shattering it. I carefully knocked the shards out of the frame, then climbed in the window, my flashlight beam illuminating desks and chairs, paperwork and phones, and heavy lockers where platoon level secure items were stored.

Above the platoon sergeant's desk was a framed pistol, a legacy of her time in the Big Red One, and my snowshoes clattered as I crossed the room to stare at it. A Colt M1911A1 .45 pistol, with two magazines bracketing it. I took it down, turned to the desk, and brought the frame down sharply. The glass shattered, and I pulled the pistol and the two clips from the frame, quickly loading it and checking the action, then dropping the other clip into my back pocket, next to my wallet.

Above my desk was a bayonet, an award from 101st Airborne for doing my job during Operation Crescent Fire back in 84, and that frame shattered too. I stuck the sheathe against the small of my back, clipping it to my belt, but didn't sheathe the bayonet. The bayonet felt good in my hand as I walked up to the locker behind the Platoon Sergeant's desk. I jammed the blade into the locker, first pulling the blade toward the door to open a gap, then twisting the blade to keep the door open before popping the door open.

The bayonet slid into the sheathe as I panned my flashlight over the contents of the locker. There were ten combat lifesaver bags, and Nancy's SF bag on one side. I bent down and took off my snowshoes quickly, slinging them across my back. I slung Nancy's aid bag over my shoulder, then grabbed as many of the combat lifesaver bags as I could, looping them around my neck and over my shoulders. My right shoulder screamed at the abuse, but I didn't have a choice.

I walked across the NCO office to the double doors, my flashlight's beam glittering on the seam of ice between the double doors. If I went outside, I was a dead man. I'd lucked out, made it through the snow and wind, but if I tried again, I knew that Tandy would be waiting for me.

When I moved to my desk, I pulled open my top drawer, grabbing out a pack of Malboros and lighting one, my hands shaking from the cold. When I moved back around my desk and went to walk away, the phone began to ring.

The sound was loud in the stillness, pounding at my ears, and I stopped and stared at the phone as it rang again. I reached forward, my right shoulder grinding as my hand moved, and I ignored the pain that flared in the joint as my fingertips grazed the plastic of the phone and it rang again.

Piss on it. I thought, turning away from it. We'd be better off if I didn't answer it. No contact meant they'd get a Ranger team up here to save us. If I answered, and they heard a living voice, there might be enough static to misunderstand me, or perhaps they'd only hear a single syllable and figure we were still fine up on the backside of the mountain.