Insurgents

I snap out of my day dream and realize that Senya, the chick sitting across from me, probably thinks I’m a pervert. Since the plane took off I’ve been desperately trying to get my ears to pop. Open and closing my mouth with a bare expression on my face gawking directly at her not conscious of my actions. I'm trying to remember what the exact speed limit of free falling is. Gravity pulls all objects towards the earth at the same rate. Physics that Alistair is probably grateful for, being plum as he is he won’t be the first of the three of us to set foot on enemy territory.

“Sorry, I wasn’t ugh… staring I was just-”

“Try chewing a piece of gum and swallow hard it usually does the trick.”

“10 minutes ‘till drop off.” The pilot of the Globemaster announces over the loud speaker. It’s a big plane and it does seem a little strange having it in use for this mission. There are probably no more than ten of us in here including the pilots. The Globemaster is a military transport jet. If not for the lack of sexy stewardess and exposed wiring it could pass for a Boeing, it’s defiantly big enough. I guess given the nature of the mission, all the way up here we’re supposed to look like one from all the way down there.

“Let’s go over the briefing notes one last time?” Alistair suggests.

“What’s there to go over?” asks Senya.

“The specifics, you know… mission details”

“Drop in, find the insurgent camp, take them out and wait for transport, how can it be any more specific than that for you?”

I grin when I realize that Alistair probably has an Xbox hooked up to his TV at home with a copy of Call of Duty sitting inside it.

“I don’t know conditions of failure… or something.” He says.

“Yes Alistair the obvious one is you die.”

“Hey come on Sen. Don’t be sour he was just making small talk.” I interrupt as a red light at the back of the carrier turns on and over the loud speaker the pilot instructs us to prepare for drop. This means we have about 5 minutes to make sure our parachutes are packed properly (I never bother, it’s too stressful, it’s not like we’d have enough time to fix any flaws anyways.) then we proceed to the back of the plane where we strap a metal hook thats attached to our harnesses to what I like to call the drop rail, before the announcer breaks out over the speaker with “Opening the hatch in 10… 9…”.

At the end of his countdown there’s a moment of silence followed by the sound of metal on metal and machinery working to lift the giant steel rear of the jet.

Senya went first, took the plunge like a champ, not thinking twice she didn’t even hook up to the drop rail. Alistair was second and I could tell that he was a little nervous, he tips over off the back of the jet like a glass figurine, stiff and fragile. It doesn’t look natural to see a man of his size being swept away by the wind like a weightless daisy.

I land hard, with an awakening thud I figure I split a bone, it felt like something went crack. Thankfully it's only my ankle that suffers a little bit of a sprain. After unlatching my parachute I get up and look around. We’re in Pakistan. The suns not up yet but the light reflecting off the moon lights up the desert nicely. I could see in the distance Alistair running over to me, head down as if theres somebody to hide from. I could only anticipate him making his way over to me and whispering “Where’s Senya?” instead he whispers “I think I got frost bite.” It was a pretty long drop. My face is cold and my nose running. The night time air feels pleasant almost a little warm after the assault of high altitude weather on my exposed skin.

“Where’s Senya?” I ended up asking first, while squinting my eyes trying to make out her figure in the dark.

“GPS reads that we’re about 15 kilometres away from our target, we should start heading North.” Senya snuck up behind us with the briefing.

“We could clear at least 2 clicks before the suns up, lets start walking” after saying that I take my first step and a sharp pain reminds me of my ankle. Two kilometres in an hour is cake even in the sand but with all the dunes ahead and the state of my foot this could be a little difficult. Not to mention the other 13 we’ll have to conquer in the Pakistani sunlight today.

By the time the sun is up we’re taking a break. I wrap up my ankle with some bandages I take from Alistair’s pack, giving my foot a little less leverage inside my boot. I get up and make my way over to Senya who is studying a map. “How’s progress?” I ask her.

“GPS is fucked; it’s only picking up signal from two satellites.”

“And that’s not good enough?”

“We need at least three to get accurate readings… we could be up to a kilometre off.”

“Well let’s keep moving, once we get to the place we’ll only be that kilometre away.” I tell her, having dated this girl I know she has a tendency to make problems appear where they really don’t exist. I offer her a hand to help her up but she ignores it, putting the equipment back in her pack she gets up and starts making her way north after a quick stretch. Alistair catches my eye and from the look he’s giving me I can tell right away what he wants. Reluctantly make my way over to him and get him up on his feet. We’re off again and this time the suns beaming down on us. Alistair puts his arm over my shoulder and takes out a liquor flask with the other. He takes a swig then offers me one.

“Care for a drink, pal?” he says holding the canister up to my face with a smile on his.

“You bet I do.” I take it from his hand and take a sequence of big gulps, pass it back to him and try to conjure up some small talk until the liquor takes effect. When I feel the buzz I wrap up the conversation about our new issue rifles and speed up to only a few paces behind Senya, just to get a good drunken look of her ass under all those layers of military issue clothing.

We keep walking at a steady pace maybe for another three clicks before the sound of a bullet whizzing past my ear leads me to tackling Senya to the ground and opening fire. We dive behind a formation of rocks at the side of a hill and kept our heads down until the enemy starts reloading.

“Who’s shooting?” asks Alistair

“The Nazi’s you moron, cock your gun and shut up.” Senya coldly replies.

“That’s not what I mean, I wanted to ask how many of them there are… I know they’re Paki.”

“We call the insurgents” correcting him I take out a pair of binoculars and crouch between the rocks to get a better look at our attackers.

“They’re in uniform… it’s the army, Pakistani army”

“Let’s just take care of them quickly” Senya says as she adjusts the focus on Alex: A brand new 7.62x51mm bolt-action sniper rifle.

“We can’t just kill these guys, they’re just doing their jobs.” I protest.

“The hell did you expect when you joined the army, want to walk over to them and offer to have a game of ring around the rosy?” she asks.

“We’re here to kill terrorists’ not military.”

“They’re shooting at us!” she reminds me slamming me in the shoulder with her palm.

“So what? We’re wearing rags as camo, for all they know we’re the terrorists they have a right to shoot at us.”

“Look, Terry what other way would you suggest we deal with this problem then?”

“We’re ghosts permitted to use deadly force as necessary. There is no consequence so just do your job hey? I mean they’re shooting at us for god’s sake.” says Alistair. I sigh, because they both have a point, we are taking fire.

“And that’s the only reason I’m shooting back.” I say, just to clarify.

“How far?” Senya asks.

“No more than 100 meters, there are only three of them on top of that sandbank over there.” Senya takes the first shot, stealing my kill I watch her bullet pin the poor troop between the eyes. He goes down and the others realize they are in some serious trouble. They had just gone through at least three full clips failing to even graze one of us but we take one shot and it took out the biggest guy they had on their side. The remaining two both dropped to the sand, through my scope I could see one of the “insurgent” dig his chin into the sand as he closed one eye to focus his aim. He starts firing in bursts in our direction. The shots are way off mark but I still feel irresponsible for letting him take so many shots at my squad. I cock my gun and fire three shots, taking him out and before I get the chance to set my aim on the last target I hear Alistair fire. There was a silence. I don’t even bother to glance to see if he’d nailed him. The mans fat but he knows how to shoot.

“Let's go take thier stuff."

“Are you kidding Alistair?” Senya says almost laughing at him. “This wasn’t anything near a fair fight, their guns have crosshairs but they don’t work, their weapons were probably made around the time World War II ended.”

“How about the food?”

“Is that all you think about?” I ask him.

“Our rations taste better than any food they could be living off of, and what, you really want to wear bloodied ski mask with a bullet hole between the eyes?” she asks him.

“Alright forget it, let’s keep moving.” He instructs as he gets himself back up on his feet by himself this time. I flip the safety and strap my rifle over my shoulder, this time Senya takes my hand when I offer it. Alistair’s already a pace ahead.

I used to be in Iraq. Fighting off rebels, giving the locals hell on the streets with convoys and of course the constant errand, clearing and securing buildings or "objectives" from rebel insurgents. The usual army work. I'm not a stranger to violence, was practically raised by it. As kids we'd have fight tournaments. Fight until someone lost a tooth or lost consciousness, whatever came first. Thankfully I still have well over half my teeth. I can’t say that I’m not grateful for the body I had as a kid, was one of the fittest ones. In high school I practically beat a kid to death for stealing my girlfriend. I've also killed men before, but this was the first time I feel this remorse. They usually look just like you expect a terrorist to look, covered in rags wearing face masks. This time they were in uniform. Serving their country for a paycheque that won’t ever make its way to their dead hands.

Pressing on in the suns rays against the sandy wind we make our way through the desert. Senya stops, drops her pack beside a group of dried out shrubs and crouches behind them. I follow her with Alistair, the three of us using the dead bushes for cover.

“That’s the camp down there.” she says pointing down to a small base surrounded by barrels and sand bags with a Humvee parked up beside a small lookout tower. Alistair shuffles through his pack and takes out his binoculars.

“This can’t be right.” he says, peering through the goggles. “They’re in U.S army uniform, that’s our Hummer.”

“GPS marks that as the base we’re here to clear.” Senya says.

“Didn’t you say the signal was weak?” I ask her.

“Not anymore, we’re picking up all the satellites we have in this region.” She says with a disappointed look on her face, and then adds “Listen guys I have to tell you a little more about this mission.” Alistair watches her with the kind of curiosity a cat watches a piece string when someone takes the time to play with it.

“These guys we’re here for are ex-army. The squad went AWOL stealing military property in Afghanistan.”

“Well then what the hell are we doing in Pakistan?” I ask her.

“They took it south and now they’re hold up in that base smuggling oil they steal from the factories in this area back to the states.”

“Bastards are posing as Marshalls, this is killing years of bonding we made with these people.” Alistair says.

“That’s right; I want you guys to understand that these aren’t U.S troops we’re dealing with anymore. They’re enemy insurgents on America’s most wanted list.” I look at her, thinking she’s crazy.

“There are no other options here Terry.” She tells me. “They went rogue, they aren’t even welcome on their own soil anymore.”

“So let’s just do our job.” Alistair says eager to finish the task at hand.

For a second the two of them look at me as if they’re waiting for my approval. I consider telling them this is ridicules, the fact that the Colonel can call seemingly anyone an insurgent, marking them with death. We’re like his lapdogs doing the dirty work. All he has to do is point the finger. The idea of killing my own men makes me sick but I don’t have very much of a choice.

“Alright let’s just get this over with.” I tell them almost in a sigh. “When we get home I’m gonna become a teacher.”

We wait behind the same bushes until the sun begins to go down. The plan is to spread up when it’s dark. Attack them from all sides when they’re most vulnerable. I shuffle through the sand trying to keep as low as possible. It’s night now but if they have night vision we might as well be playing with glow sticks.

“I’m in position.” Senya comes over the talkie.

“Let’s give it a minute and we open fire.” By now I’m nervous, more nervous than I’ve ever been out on the field. For once there are stakes. We’re outnumbered, from here I can make out four of them but there could be more. Our first fair firefight and we’re shooting at Americans, now I can vaguely imagine how the real insurgents feel before attacking. They’ve got a;; the modern equipment we're using and top of the line guns. Bullets that explode on contact sending shrapnel flying in every imaginable direction, not to mention the 50 cal. machine gun mounted to the top of that Humvee.

“I have a shot for the machine gunner.” I radio over to my squad. Take a few calming breathes and line up the crosshairs with the Yankees skull. Flick the safety and before I can realign myself for the shot he goes down. There are bullets flying from the darkness and in the night all that could be made out is the heated shells tearing through the air.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Senya radios.

“Rebels got to them first, hold your fire don’t give our positions away.” I tell the two of them. The firefight doesn’t last very long. The AWOL squad didn’t stand much of a chance. Insurgents took them by storm. Screaming and charging firing their weapons automatically. I look through my night vision scope again just in time to see a rebel running with an AK, propelling his gun hand forward with every squeeze of the trigger as if the thrusting arm motion sends the bullets packing an extra punch. The fight was over in an instant, before the deserters manage to fall to the sandy ground that now marks thier graves the camp was already swarming with their attackers.

The three of us regroup at a hillside out of sight of the camp. Alistair sits against the wall of the hill with his legs crossed blindly polishing his rifle in the dark.

“As far as I’m concerned our job is done” he says. And he’s right, our job is done. We were sent to take out a squad of soldiers that turned on their own country and now they’re dead. Just by looking at her I can tell Senya is itching to fight, she wants to finish the job. She’s a real killing machine. It’s like her blood boils at the sight of an “insurgent”. She’s an American soldier bread for war three years in the army and for her taking a life is like popping an Advil.

Alistair can tell as well as I can that she’s nervous and he tries to calm her “Relax it’s over let’s go home.”

“They’re going to be out of the camp by sunrise, these insurgents mean nothing to us. The ones we were sent to kill are dead so let’s just radio for the chopper.” I tell her.

We sit in dead silence for the rest of the night. It went by quickly, the two of us sitting next to each other with Alistair’s legs separating us. Alistair, the only one who caught a few hours of sleep, his snoring a dead giveaway. I want to talk to her but there’s nothing to say. For a moment I feel ashamed of myself. I get sick to the stomach when I think back about killing the Pakistani soldiers. I hate myself for pulling the trigger on them because I don’t know if I’d be able to pull the trigger on the real enemy, the evil men who betrayed their country for an easy life in the desert. Does skin colour really mean that much? I mean an insurgent by definition is: a person who takes part in an armed rebellion against the constituted authority. So why would it have been so hard to kill a group of deserters when I could effortlessly fire at insurgents that speak a different language or look a different way. The saying carries a lot of truth… ‘You pick your fights.’ I don’t want any part of this one anymore.