The Eden Created, and the Hell to Create it

Chapter 1: Bad Omen

A crimson moon set over the forested landscape. Jack felt the same as most; an aching feeling in his gut, and a bad omen. Jack didn't believe in too much superstition. He was a religious man after all. Superstitions and strange omens had no place in his beliefs. He fiddled with the dust cover on his rifle scopes' windage adjuster as he watched the sun continue to drop behind the vast ocean horizon and darkness encompassed the landscape. He walked along the sandy shore mere feet away from the crashing surf. He reached into his pocket, pulling a lightly weathered soap case, retrieving a half-full pack of filterless cigarettes. Checking to see if anyone was watching he quickly lit and proceeded to take a long hearty drag. A relieved sigh was followed by billowing smoke from his nostrils as he closed his eyes for only a brief moment before the sound of rustling foliage broke the silence and crashing waves. He hid his contraband behind his back as he turned to see the assailant. "Good evening, Staff Sergeant!" a young Lance Corporal shouted.
Jack cringed, and motioned him to keep his voice down, and quickly walked towards the young Marine. "Keep your voice down!" he whispered aggressively. "Use your head!" He slapped the young marine in the back of the helmet, not so much to hurt the marine, but to ensure he was awake, and alert to his mistake. The young Marine lowered his head in shame. Jack checked his watch. 1730. He was 30 minutes early to his watch. He let out a disgruntled sigh, before placing his cigarette back in his mouth. "You're early," he stated before pulling out his cigarette pack once again and offering one to him.
"Yes, Staff Sergeant." He said, retrieving one from the pack. "I was worried I'd be late if I waited any longer." Jack lit the young man's cigarette with his lighter. Lance Corporal Kachima was new blood. Not yet baptized by the horrors of conflict. He had hoped to shield him and his men from either bearing witness to it or having to experience it again. He quickly dismissed the idea out of his head. He took no pleasure in dwelling on 'maybes' and 'what ifs.'
"As long as you're here." Jack took another drag of his cigarette. "You didn't so happen to see the other posts on your way over here, did you?" He began to walk with the Marine alongside the coast for the few minutes remaining on his watch. Jack had been sent out with his entire squad. 4 fireteams, himself as squad lead, and his lieutenant, who was currently sleeping soundly in his sleeping bag. Most of the time staff and officers avoided standing watch. It was often a task attributed to the lower ranks, but Jack enjoyed the quiet hour or two that came with it. Time for him to think, and breathe without Lt Michael Patrick breathing down his neck and asking whatever unimportant or monotonous questions he had about protocol, and the 'enlisted way around.' Officers like him were far too common. Smart, and intelligent, but you put them in charge of a platoon, or let them accompany you on a squad-sized patrol and it's like they lose all sense in the world. Obsessed with military protocol.
"Fireteams two, three, and four are still awake," he responded, before coughing on his cigarette. Adjusting himself he grabbed a magazine from a pouch loaded it into his rifle, and chambered the first round. For over a week, Jack and his squad have been stuck searching for god knows what, in god knows where Washington with little clue as to what it is they were even doing. Just another blacked-out folder with a location, and a directive to locate and report anything found. Black folders, black ink, and all the bells and whistles attached. All he knew was that he had to find some sign of habitation. Huts, tunnels, hell, a boat full of hippies, attempt and report it back. Jack thought that maybe that's why Lt Pat wanted in on this patrol so badly. Missions were few and far between, and he, much like Kachima, was green to it all. Unbloodied. Innocent. The only difference between the two is that Kachima knew he didn't know anything, and Pat thought he had all the answers. Unfortunately, they were all either wrong or half true. The field can't be prepared for and calculated in a pretty spreadsheet, or a nice MLA formatted essay. It's preparation to react to the thing you are least likely to expect, and being prepared for even that to have some other thing to happen that was even less likely. To Pat's credit, Jack thought he was prepared for just about everything. Everything on that spreadsheet.
As they walked the beach, the crystal blue sea crashed against the surf. The embers of Jack's cigarette burned ever closer to his fingertips as he had taken a final draw. "Carry on. Wake me if anything should arise, or you find anything out of the ordinary. Jack withdrew himself from the beach and entered the forest adjacent. He stepped by the sleeping men of the first fireteam, to a pack sitting at the far end of the line of sleeping men and women marked with his name; SSGT J.J. Ackman. Right next to LT Patrick. Reaching into his pack opens a small pouch retrieving a small leather-bound notebook and leather-bound flask. He was careful to open it. If the LT heard or even whiffed any scent of contraband, he'd never hear the end of it.  He drank deeply as he began to write another letter to his wife and kids.
June 12th 2039