(no subject)
Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 1
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Griego, Fick, Espera, Hasser, Reyes, Eventual Brad/Nate, Hasser/Person, one-sided Trombley/Person, Reyes/Patrick
Summary: Colbert and Trombley find themselves stranded alone, in the desert. Comms are down and there's no sign of human life. The only thing to do is move forward.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
--
“Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. We have four foot mobiles to our ten o’clock with what appears to be an RPG tube. Foot mobiles currently are stopped and appear to have eyes on us. Permission to halt and take care of this. How copy?”
A moment later, Brad’s comms come alive. ”2-1 Actual, this is Hitman 2. Solid copy. All victors. All victors, this is Hitman 2. Halt victors and set up a perimeter behind 2-1. Out.” Dutifully, Ray stops the HMMWV, and in moments, every man in Bravo 2 not on a turret is pushing out of the vehicles and setting up defensive positions. Brad looks out to the area Trombley had pegged as having enemy movement, and sure enough, four men can be seen in the distance, white pajamas billowing in the harsh Iraqi wind. Moving quickly, Brad sets himself next to the rookie Marine and levels his weapon, looking down the scope to gain a better view.
“I don’t know if the others are armed, Sergeant,” Trombley informs him. “They were too far out for me to see, but the guy in the middle definitely has an RPG tube.” Nodding, Brad continues to scan the area until the men are in his sights. One is indeed holding an RPG, the Russian style popular in this area of the world; cheap, effective, and easier to get a hold on than an apple pie at a Fourth of July party.
“Nice to know that your eyes are as good as ever, Trombley,” he informs him as he thumbs the key to the microphone on his headset. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Foot mobiles indeed have an RPG, and are also armed with AK-47s. Currently, they have eyes on us, and seem to be moving into an offensive posture 400 meters out. Request permission to engage. How copy?”
”This is Hitman 2. Solid copy. You have permission to engage targets, over.” Brad nods and places a hand on Trombley’s shoulder. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Roger that. Out.” He squeezes Trombley’s shoulder lightly. “Smoke ‘em.”
The relative quiet of the day is shattered as Trombley’s SAW comes to life. Automatic rifle fire is all that’s heard for a moment before it’s joined in with the sounds of others firing semi-autos and MK-19s. With the breaking of silence, all Hell breaks loose. What was four men in the distance becomes scattered reports over the comms about other enemy targets popping in and out of people’s sectors of fire. An ambush is all Brad can think as he flattens himself on the ground next to Trombley and begins to take aim, as well. Isn’t this just fucking beautiful?
Hasser fires sporadically above them, the mechanical THUNK of the MK-19 almost lost behind the relentless bursts issuing from the .50 Cal on Poke’s Victor behind them. The chaos is added on as Lieutenant Fick’s voice cuts through the comms, ordering in a not-so-calm voice for everyone to push out to some cover. Brad relays the order to his squad, and they’re up.
Trombley and Brad make their way to a pile of rubble and set up there. It’s a decent patch of cover, and the fire coming from the enemy slams into the berm without coming out of the other side. Brad isn’t worried. He simply returns fire when necessary, taking careful aim at whoever’s bold enough to fire in the silence of Trombley’s SAW. After a minute or so, Trombley’s voice is in his ear, telling him of the need to reload. Brad nods and takes up the slack. He continues to fire indiscriminately. Where there’s a silhouette, his rifle fires in that direction. Shock and awe is the name of the game, and when it comes to 1st Recon, no one is better. He reloads, and in the back of his mind, he’s wondering why Trombley hasn’t returned fire yet. It isn’t long before his musing is answered.
“Umm, Sergeant?” Brad turns around to look at the young man in his team. Something in his voice tells him to. What he sees makes his blood run cold. Wrapped around the bipod of Trombley’s weapon is an extension cord cable that leads in and out of the pile of rubble they’ve situated themselves on. All Brad can think is Oh, shit.
He barely has the chance to scream “IED!” before it detonates. He feels nothing. His world is black.
---
Glaring sunlight wakes him up, heating his eyelids and casting a bright and angry red glow upon them. Groggily, Brad sits up and blinks the haze from his eyes. The road the convoy was on is gone, as is the convoy. He’s surrounded by an expanse of desert, the flat land occasionally marked by the odd sand dune. The berm he’d been perched on is still there, albeit demolished by what looks to have been an explosion. So that wasn’t a dream, he thinks to himself as he gathers himself and gets to his feet. He thinks for a moment that this might be, but things here are too real. The heat is as stifling as ever. He’s drenched in sweat, and his skin is sticky from what had been dried up.
“Ray?” he calls out. His question is only met by an echo that eventually dies out. “Hasser! Trombley!”
“Sergeant Colbert!” Brad lets out a breath of relief when he hears the eager voice of Trombley. He turns around, and there he is walking over a nearby berm. His eyes are wide, clearly conveying the fear which has gripped him. “You’re finally awake. I’ve been looking for them, but they’re gone, Sergeant. No enemy, no road, and no sign of Bravo.”
“Are you sure?” He questions immediately. Trombley nods in affirmation.
“I went to the top of the berm there, and there’s nothing for miles. Except what might be a hamlet, but that’s a long way off. They didn’t abandon us, did they, Sergeant?” He sounds scared, unsure. Not even when Trombley had been called into question on his actions the day they took that airfield in the early days of the tour did he sound so helpless.
“It’s a possibility, but I don’t think they did,” he replies, not wanting to startle him even further. Trombley needed an anchor. Brad didn’t want to be that, but it was looking like he had no choice in the matter. Moving his thumb to the switch for his radio, he flicked it once, so the quiet static became silenced entirely.
“Hitman 2, this is Hitman 2-1 Actual. How copy?” Brad is met by silence. Frustrated, he tries again. “Say again. Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Your position is currently unknown and I have no indication as to my location. Requesting grid coordinates to your location. How copy?” Still, silence. After a minute, Brad becomes frustrated and switches to company-wide comms, repeating his message. Still, nothing. Switching over, he next tries Godfather with the same result. Is everyone really that far out from us? he wonders. He continues on, though, now switching to Divisional Comms.
“Chaos, this is Hitman 2. Stand by for nine-line medevac, over.” Nothing, once again. He goes back down the chain again. RCT-1, Battalion HQ, Bravo, Second Platoon. He even tries the other platoons, then the artillery battalion Steel Rain, Alpha, Charlie, and H&S companies. Not even a crackle of radio interference. Did we drop off of the face of the Earth? He sighs in frustration and looks over to Trombley. “We have nothing. We might be out of range, or comms could be down. Either way, we’re fucked. There’s no sign of movement aside from what you’ve done. Hell, there aren’t even tracks from the vehicles.” He fights the dread threatening to overwhelm him. Trombley was already at that point, if the wide-eyed expression he currently wore meant anything. It’d do them no good if both of them were in a panic.
“So, what’s the plan, Sergeant?” Trombley asked. Brad sighs and shakes his head.
“We’re of no use just standing out here with our dicks in the dirt. How far off is that hamlet, Trombley?” Trombley motions brad to follow him to the top of the berm. He does so, and the two take a look at the scenery, or lack thereof. Sure enough, there appears to be a scattering of buildings in the distance in the brick adobe style popular with lower-class individuals in Iraq. It’s a few kliks out, but it’s their only choice. To stay here would leave them vulnerable to enemy forces, as well as threaten some sort of collapse due to exposure to the elements. And the two still have their weapons and ammo. It’ll have to do.
“Come on, Trombley. We’re Oscar Mike.”
--
It’s some time before they reach the Hamlet, and it’s just as empty as the expanse they’d just crossed. No food, the wells are dried up, and more importantly, no people. Electricity is nonexistent in the area, even though there are signs that life had indeed inhabited this village in the not-so-distant past. What’s truly eerie is that they haven’t seen or heard any animals since they’d woken up. No birds singing, nor the distant sounds of creatures hunting. Even the incessant noise of larger insects is missing. It was as if the area had been by some sort of chemical attack, except there were no bodies to show for it, no final signs of struggle.
The thought of no food is often in the back of Brad’s mind, but it’s more of a nagging feeling. He isn’t hungry or thirsty, and Trombley hasn’t indicated this condition either. It’s a problem among problems that Brad just files away. He orders Trombley to rest when they find shelter suitable to Brad’s tastes. As Trombley sleeps, murmuring slightly, he plays with his headset, switching back and forth between comms. When he hits Company-wide comms, static plays in his ears before the slightest bit of noise feeds in. His eyes pop open and he tries to hear the message. It’s only a playing of sound, but it gives Brad hope. That was Griego’s voice he’d heard, and God as his witness, he’s never been so glad to hear Casey Kasem. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make out a damn word he’d said.
“Hitman, this is 2-1 Actual. I’m stranded about ten kliks west by southwest from the presumed area Hitman 2 had come under enemy attack earlier in the day with Hitman Echo-Three Tango. Break.” He pauses for a moment and continues. “Our location is in a small hamlet in that area. It appears abandoned of all civilians. Requesting immediate extraction.”
It’s another moment before he hears Griego’s voice again. “Fall in!” Silence, once again. What the Hell is going on? ”Baptista, Leandro!” “Aye, Gunny!” He could hear clearly the voice of his fellow team leader clearly. ”Brunmeier, Michael!” “Aye, Gunny!” ”Carisalez, Jeffrey!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Chaffin, James!” “Aye, Gunny!” He begins to recognize it for what it is. A roll call. Had Bravo’s laundry list of fuckups actually gone so far as they’d risk every name in the damn company on a communication line that could be intercepted at any moment?
The list continues, until his name perks him up. ”Colbert, Bradley!” “Hitman , what the Hell is go-.” ”Colbert, Bradley!” Brad freezes at the repeat. He knows Griego doesn’t like him in the least, and he isn’t afraid to say the feeling is mutual, but whatever this is, he would usually wait for his acknowledgement. The silence this time is longer than usual, so Brad hits the comms again, but stops when he hears Griego speak once more. ”Espera, Antonio!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Fick, Nathaniel!” “Aye, Gunny!” The list goes on without interruption until it hits Trombley. His name is repeated, like Brad’s was. For a moment Brad thinks of waking Trombley, so he can say something, but the chill creeping up his spine stops him. After the silence, Griego continues, his voice noticeably shakier. When the roll call ceases, Griego continues, no sign of radio etiquette anywhere.
“Today we lost two men vital to the Corps. We stand here in this formation to remember the lives of Sergeant Brad Colbert and Lance Corporal Harold Trombley. Despite their bumps in the road, they both had everyone’s back in their team, their platoon, and in this company….” Griego’s voice fades out once more, but Brad doesn’t even notice.
They weren’t on comms. They weren’t even in their victors. It was a final formation to commemorate their deaths.
He almost doesn’t hear the panicked calls from Trombley behind him.
To Part 2
Title: Purgatory Part 1
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Griego, Fick, Espera, Hasser, Reyes, Eventual Brad/Nate, Hasser/Person, one-sided Trombley/Person, Reyes/Patrick
Summary: Colbert and Trombley find themselves stranded alone, in the desert. Comms are down and there's no sign of human life. The only thing to do is move forward.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
--
“Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. We have four foot mobiles to our ten o’clock with what appears to be an RPG tube. Foot mobiles currently are stopped and appear to have eyes on us. Permission to halt and take care of this. How copy?”
A moment later, Brad’s comms come alive. ”2-1 Actual, this is Hitman 2. Solid copy. All victors. All victors, this is Hitman 2. Halt victors and set up a perimeter behind 2-1. Out.” Dutifully, Ray stops the HMMWV, and in moments, every man in Bravo 2 not on a turret is pushing out of the vehicles and setting up defensive positions. Brad looks out to the area Trombley had pegged as having enemy movement, and sure enough, four men can be seen in the distance, white pajamas billowing in the harsh Iraqi wind. Moving quickly, Brad sets himself next to the rookie Marine and levels his weapon, looking down the scope to gain a better view.
“I don’t know if the others are armed, Sergeant,” Trombley informs him. “They were too far out for me to see, but the guy in the middle definitely has an RPG tube.” Nodding, Brad continues to scan the area until the men are in his sights. One is indeed holding an RPG, the Russian style popular in this area of the world; cheap, effective, and easier to get a hold on than an apple pie at a Fourth of July party.
“Nice to know that your eyes are as good as ever, Trombley,” he informs him as he thumbs the key to the microphone on his headset. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Foot mobiles indeed have an RPG, and are also armed with AK-47s. Currently, they have eyes on us, and seem to be moving into an offensive posture 400 meters out. Request permission to engage. How copy?”
”This is Hitman 2. Solid copy. You have permission to engage targets, over.” Brad nods and places a hand on Trombley’s shoulder. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Roger that. Out.” He squeezes Trombley’s shoulder lightly. “Smoke ‘em.”
The relative quiet of the day is shattered as Trombley’s SAW comes to life. Automatic rifle fire is all that’s heard for a moment before it’s joined in with the sounds of others firing semi-autos and MK-19s. With the breaking of silence, all Hell breaks loose. What was four men in the distance becomes scattered reports over the comms about other enemy targets popping in and out of people’s sectors of fire. An ambush is all Brad can think as he flattens himself on the ground next to Trombley and begins to take aim, as well. Isn’t this just fucking beautiful?
Hasser fires sporadically above them, the mechanical THUNK of the MK-19 almost lost behind the relentless bursts issuing from the .50 Cal on Poke’s Victor behind them. The chaos is added on as Lieutenant Fick’s voice cuts through the comms, ordering in a not-so-calm voice for everyone to push out to some cover. Brad relays the order to his squad, and they’re up.
Trombley and Brad make their way to a pile of rubble and set up there. It’s a decent patch of cover, and the fire coming from the enemy slams into the berm without coming out of the other side. Brad isn’t worried. He simply returns fire when necessary, taking careful aim at whoever’s bold enough to fire in the silence of Trombley’s SAW. After a minute or so, Trombley’s voice is in his ear, telling him of the need to reload. Brad nods and takes up the slack. He continues to fire indiscriminately. Where there’s a silhouette, his rifle fires in that direction. Shock and awe is the name of the game, and when it comes to 1st Recon, no one is better. He reloads, and in the back of his mind, he’s wondering why Trombley hasn’t returned fire yet. It isn’t long before his musing is answered.
“Umm, Sergeant?” Brad turns around to look at the young man in his team. Something in his voice tells him to. What he sees makes his blood run cold. Wrapped around the bipod of Trombley’s weapon is an extension cord cable that leads in and out of the pile of rubble they’ve situated themselves on. All Brad can think is Oh, shit.
He barely has the chance to scream “IED!” before it detonates. He feels nothing. His world is black.
---
Glaring sunlight wakes him up, heating his eyelids and casting a bright and angry red glow upon them. Groggily, Brad sits up and blinks the haze from his eyes. The road the convoy was on is gone, as is the convoy. He’s surrounded by an expanse of desert, the flat land occasionally marked by the odd sand dune. The berm he’d been perched on is still there, albeit demolished by what looks to have been an explosion. So that wasn’t a dream, he thinks to himself as he gathers himself and gets to his feet. He thinks for a moment that this might be, but things here are too real. The heat is as stifling as ever. He’s drenched in sweat, and his skin is sticky from what had been dried up.
“Ray?” he calls out. His question is only met by an echo that eventually dies out. “Hasser! Trombley!”
“Sergeant Colbert!” Brad lets out a breath of relief when he hears the eager voice of Trombley. He turns around, and there he is walking over a nearby berm. His eyes are wide, clearly conveying the fear which has gripped him. “You’re finally awake. I’ve been looking for them, but they’re gone, Sergeant. No enemy, no road, and no sign of Bravo.”
“Are you sure?” He questions immediately. Trombley nods in affirmation.
“I went to the top of the berm there, and there’s nothing for miles. Except what might be a hamlet, but that’s a long way off. They didn’t abandon us, did they, Sergeant?” He sounds scared, unsure. Not even when Trombley had been called into question on his actions the day they took that airfield in the early days of the tour did he sound so helpless.
“It’s a possibility, but I don’t think they did,” he replies, not wanting to startle him even further. Trombley needed an anchor. Brad didn’t want to be that, but it was looking like he had no choice in the matter. Moving his thumb to the switch for his radio, he flicked it once, so the quiet static became silenced entirely.
“Hitman 2, this is Hitman 2-1 Actual. How copy?” Brad is met by silence. Frustrated, he tries again. “Say again. Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Your position is currently unknown and I have no indication as to my location. Requesting grid coordinates to your location. How copy?” Still, silence. After a minute, Brad becomes frustrated and switches to company-wide comms, repeating his message. Still, nothing. Switching over, he next tries Godfather with the same result. Is everyone really that far out from us? he wonders. He continues on, though, now switching to Divisional Comms.
“Chaos, this is Hitman 2. Stand by for nine-line medevac, over.” Nothing, once again. He goes back down the chain again. RCT-1, Battalion HQ, Bravo, Second Platoon. He even tries the other platoons, then the artillery battalion Steel Rain, Alpha, Charlie, and H&S companies. Not even a crackle of radio interference. Did we drop off of the face of the Earth? He sighs in frustration and looks over to Trombley. “We have nothing. We might be out of range, or comms could be down. Either way, we’re fucked. There’s no sign of movement aside from what you’ve done. Hell, there aren’t even tracks from the vehicles.” He fights the dread threatening to overwhelm him. Trombley was already at that point, if the wide-eyed expression he currently wore meant anything. It’d do them no good if both of them were in a panic.
“So, what’s the plan, Sergeant?” Trombley asked. Brad sighs and shakes his head.
“We’re of no use just standing out here with our dicks in the dirt. How far off is that hamlet, Trombley?” Trombley motions brad to follow him to the top of the berm. He does so, and the two take a look at the scenery, or lack thereof. Sure enough, there appears to be a scattering of buildings in the distance in the brick adobe style popular with lower-class individuals in Iraq. It’s a few kliks out, but it’s their only choice. To stay here would leave them vulnerable to enemy forces, as well as threaten some sort of collapse due to exposure to the elements. And the two still have their weapons and ammo. It’ll have to do.
“Come on, Trombley. We’re Oscar Mike.”
--
It’s some time before they reach the Hamlet, and it’s just as empty as the expanse they’d just crossed. No food, the wells are dried up, and more importantly, no people. Electricity is nonexistent in the area, even though there are signs that life had indeed inhabited this village in the not-so-distant past. What’s truly eerie is that they haven’t seen or heard any animals since they’d woken up. No birds singing, nor the distant sounds of creatures hunting. Even the incessant noise of larger insects is missing. It was as if the area had been by some sort of chemical attack, except there were no bodies to show for it, no final signs of struggle.
The thought of no food is often in the back of Brad’s mind, but it’s more of a nagging feeling. He isn’t hungry or thirsty, and Trombley hasn’t indicated this condition either. It’s a problem among problems that Brad just files away. He orders Trombley to rest when they find shelter suitable to Brad’s tastes. As Trombley sleeps, murmuring slightly, he plays with his headset, switching back and forth between comms. When he hits Company-wide comms, static plays in his ears before the slightest bit of noise feeds in. His eyes pop open and he tries to hear the message. It’s only a playing of sound, but it gives Brad hope. That was Griego’s voice he’d heard, and God as his witness, he’s never been so glad to hear Casey Kasem. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make out a damn word he’d said.
“Hitman, this is 2-1 Actual. I’m stranded about ten kliks west by southwest from the presumed area Hitman 2 had come under enemy attack earlier in the day with Hitman Echo-Three Tango. Break.” He pauses for a moment and continues. “Our location is in a small hamlet in that area. It appears abandoned of all civilians. Requesting immediate extraction.”
It’s another moment before he hears Griego’s voice again. “Fall in!” Silence, once again. What the Hell is going on? ”Baptista, Leandro!” “Aye, Gunny!” He could hear clearly the voice of his fellow team leader clearly. ”Brunmeier, Michael!” “Aye, Gunny!” ”Carisalez, Jeffrey!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Chaffin, James!” “Aye, Gunny!” He begins to recognize it for what it is. A roll call. Had Bravo’s laundry list of fuckups actually gone so far as they’d risk every name in the damn company on a communication line that could be intercepted at any moment?
The list continues, until his name perks him up. ”Colbert, Bradley!” “Hitman , what the Hell is go-.” ”Colbert, Bradley!” Brad freezes at the repeat. He knows Griego doesn’t like him in the least, and he isn’t afraid to say the feeling is mutual, but whatever this is, he would usually wait for his acknowledgement. The silence this time is longer than usual, so Brad hits the comms again, but stops when he hears Griego speak once more. ”Espera, Antonio!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Fick, Nathaniel!” “Aye, Gunny!” The list goes on without interruption until it hits Trombley. His name is repeated, like Brad’s was. For a moment Brad thinks of waking Trombley, so he can say something, but the chill creeping up his spine stops him. After the silence, Griego continues, his voice noticeably shakier. When the roll call ceases, Griego continues, no sign of radio etiquette anywhere.
“Today we lost two men vital to the Corps. We stand here in this formation to remember the lives of Sergeant Brad Colbert and Lance Corporal Harold Trombley. Despite their bumps in the road, they both had everyone’s back in their team, their platoon, and in this company….” Griego’s voice fades out once more, but Brad doesn’t even notice.
They weren’t on comms. They weren’t even in their victors. It was a final formation to commemorate their deaths.
He almost doesn’t hear the panicked calls from Trombley behind him.
To Part 2