Then there'll be one less bomb in the garden...
Poke acts like it's a choice, but it isn't a choice. It's a bomb in a garden where children play daily and it was dropped there by a U.S bomber, and that means that its their responsibility when the kids go climbing over it and it's a matter of days before it blows one of them, all of them, sky fucking high. Not on Brad's watch. Not while he can do something. War's bad enough without fucking up and killing more kids. Everybody hates them already.
This is one thing that can be done. He strips off his Kevlar, puts his rifle on one side. Gun's only going to get in his way, and, if this bitch goes off, his helmet's not going to do him any good at all.
As always, as ever, he can hear Ray jabbering away as always and Poke's looking like someone walked right up and slapped his pretty Mexican mother, but Brad can feel the cool creeping over him. He's singing to himself, but he'd be hard pressed to know exactly what as he opens the Det, kit and sets up the C-4.
"Shut up, Ray."
This part, he needs to concentrate on because, while there was a little bit of this in his training, there's an awful lot that can go wrong with this and, quite frankly, while Brad's never been afraid to die in the line of duty, this isn't the way he wants to go, in an empty shit-hole swimming pool masquerading as a garden in one of the most retarded countries that he's ever had the misfortune to visit.
Still, Marines make do.
All around him, it's gone very quiet, though he can still hear the birds singing over head. When he's finished, he checks his watch and then he straightens up and turns to walk away, Det. kit in hand. Couple of minutes and there'll be one less bomb in the garden, and...
And, out in the desert, it's easy to get disorientated and sometimes it looks like a beach and he finds himself shading his eyes and looking for the sea.
This time he doesn't have to look for it. This time, it's right fucking there.
Brad shades his eyes and looks at miles upon miles of beautiful blue.
He almost forgets to keep walking away from the bomb in the sand.
ooc: please glance at this Slated post before tagging in.
This is one thing that can be done. He strips off his Kevlar, puts his rifle on one side. Gun's only going to get in his way, and, if this bitch goes off, his helmet's not going to do him any good at all.
As always, as ever, he can hear Ray jabbering away as always and Poke's looking like someone walked right up and slapped his pretty Mexican mother, but Brad can feel the cool creeping over him. He's singing to himself, but he'd be hard pressed to know exactly what as he opens the Det, kit and sets up the C-4.
"Shut up, Ray."
This part, he needs to concentrate on because, while there was a little bit of this in his training, there's an awful lot that can go wrong with this and, quite frankly, while Brad's never been afraid to die in the line of duty, this isn't the way he wants to go, in an empty shit-hole swimming pool masquerading as a garden in one of the most retarded countries that he's ever had the misfortune to visit.
Still, Marines make do.
All around him, it's gone very quiet, though he can still hear the birds singing over head. When he's finished, he checks his watch and then he straightens up and turns to walk away, Det. kit in hand. Couple of minutes and there'll be one less bomb in the garden, and...
And, out in the desert, it's easy to get disorientated and sometimes it looks like a beach and he finds himself shading his eyes and looking for the sea.
This time he doesn't have to look for it. This time, it's right fucking there.
Brad shades his eyes and looks at miles upon miles of beautiful blue.
He almost forgets to keep walking away from the bomb in the sand.
ooc: please glance at this Slated post before tagging in.