The Fantasy Project

2. Stripes, Bars, and Stars

The dreams have been coming since I arrived in Fort Hood. I didnt know they were prophetic in the beginning, so some of what I write is out of memory. These dreams are usually lost in the fog of waking, but I can normally get them on paper before they evaporate. Most of the time. Ive learned to pay special attention to the ones that repeat, though.

I didnt start the journals until the Sergeant suggested it, and the first few were lost when we blew the ammo dump - and half of our units personal belongings - in Cleburne.

That hadnt been a retreat, exactly. We were surrounded at the time. Russians had us pinned down to the south and east, Mexicans to the west and one of our sister units to the north. The Captain took the news calmly and suggested that we could advance in any direction we wanted.

The Captain had a way of reminding us how bad ass our predecessors were by quoting them at such times. He usually gave the speaker credit, but he didnt that day, which I thought was odd. He was spooked and it showed.

Still, we advanced to the east, heading toward Midlothian. The north wasnt an option. The Hellcats arent the only elite operators on our side, and we sure as hell werent going to try our luck against Ghost-82. Rumor had it that they were comprised entirely of the remnants of the mythical Army Airborne Rangers. We can kick ass, but they are less selective about anatomy. They'll kick anything within kicking range. Of course, Ghost-82 didnt know it was the Hellcats they had pinned down and due to the smite button they'd borrowed from On High, we couldn't exactly run over there and tell them.

Ive spent considerable time trying to arrange these entries in chronological order. This was one of the first and the subject matter was, strangely enough, my dreams. At the time, we didnt know the value they held or how to deal with them. Once you read it, I think you'll better understand my end of things.

-

The young man was ushered into a small office. Floor-to-ceiling windows stood where two walls should have been, but light was omitted entirely by metal panels on the other side of the glass. In the room, a middle-aged Army officer sat behind an expansive mohagany desk. His uniform was crisp, the ribbons on his left breast a riot of color against his khaki shirt.

Captain Weeks gave the private a gentle nudge toward the desk-officer combination.

I would like to point out that I am the private in question. This is what makes the dreams so damned odd. I know that its me, but in the dream my mind is detached from my identity. Details are absorbed as if I were a presence separate from the people Im dreaming about. Dont judge me too harshly by what youre about to read. I'm not an idiot. I just appear to be one, here. In the interest of posterity, the recounting of this dream is accurate but I repeat: I'm not an idiot. Probably.

The Private looked for the Officer's rank insignia. In the dim light of the office, he had to get close to identify twin metallic sparks on the man's lapel.

"Oh, shit." He squeeked, almost inaudibly, and snapped to attention, eyes straight, posture rigid. His right arm seemed to undergo a series of involuntary spasms as he debated wether or not to salute. The Private, unlike the Captain was in civilian attire, having returned from leave only moments prior.

"Dont salute, Private." The Officer's voice held unveiled amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched but stopped short of a smile. "This meeting is informal. Stand at ease."

The Private began the shift into parade rest, feet shoulder width apart, but left his arms firm to his side, as that had not been the order. He panicked, eyes wide, but locked up anyway and held position. His eyes flicked to the side to see the Captain's lips tightly clamped tofether.