twenty-one hundred hours. I worked it out. There are enough of us we'll only have to do it twice a month to cover all the slots."
Jesus, now they had senior staff pulling guard duty? What the hell was going on? "Any hint as to why?"
"No, but maybe we'll hear that in the meeting."
"What meeting?" Crash had left for less than an hour to eat lunch in the chow hall and run by his can, and it seemed he'd missed all sorts of shit.
"Check your email."
Sighing, Crash sat and logged into his computer. Sure enough, there was an email in his inbox. They'd called a senior staff NCO meeting starting in—he glanced at the time in the corner of the screen—half an hour. At least maybe they'd finally hear what was up.
~
"No eating in the chow hall. You get your food and leave. No gathering in large groups of any kind." The Senior Enlisted Advisor, Master Gunnery Sergeant Devon, passed on that order to the stunned Marines in the room. "Direct order from the CO, Lieutenant Colonel Hinman."
Crash and close to two dozen senior staff NCOs, including Zippy, sat around the long table in the large conference room located across the hall from where Crash worked in Production Control. There were two large TVs and a big-eye for doing computer generated power point presentations, but it seemed they wouldn't be needing any of that for this meeting.
No more chow hall. Senior enlisted on roving guard duty. Weapons at arm's length, even in quarters. "What the hell is going on?"
Crash had whispered the question more to himself than to anyone else, but the guy next to him leaned close. "Ramadan's ending. They're afraid that's when the shit's gonna hit the fan."
Shit was a good word right about now.
CHAPTER 11
A week in, the no eating in the chow hall order was starting to wear on him. Crash barely took a lunch break any more. He'd get his food, bring it back to his office and eat at his desk. That made his twelve plus hour day seem to drag by even slower than usual.
Maybe he should start going back to the CLU and take his lunch breaks there with Zippy, but that would mean watching one of Zippy's weird ass TV shows.
Nope, better to stay in the office.
Crash swallowed a forkful of tuna and glanced at his screen as his email alert chimed. He smiled as a message from Trish popped into his inbox and clicked to open it.
Just checking in. You need more sardines yet? (Ick!)
Hope you're having a good day!
Trish
She was so damn cute. He hit reply and had just laid his hands on the keyboard to write a message back when, for no apparent reason, he lost signal.
Now what? He truly didn't understand how they could have such shitty internet on a major base in this day and age. He sat and waited, hoping it was just a blip and the signal would come back. The warning flashing across his screen told him this was no blip and this was no run of the mill internet outage.
The code word that crossed his screen told Crash command had cut all communications for everything coming from or going to anywhere other than Leatherneck/Bastion. This was not good.
Exterior communications were intentionally blocked for a number of reasons. Death of a military member, a visiting dignitary or high-dollar general, or an attack—either against the allies or initiated by them.
What had prompted this one? He hated to think it was a casualty. It had been so quiet lately he'd thought the precautions put in place by command for the possible attacks at the end of Ramadan had been insane. The holiday had ended yesterday at sunset, but nothing had happened last night, when Crash had assumed any attack would have come.
The sound of the base-wide alarm told Crash this was no visiting dignitary. This was an attack. The insurgents had been biding their time, or maybe celebrating yesterday, but now they were ready to fight.
He stood fast, sending his desk chair skidding behind him as he did. Crash grabbed his body armor and turned to the other personnel in the office. "Flaks and
Jesus, now they had senior staff pulling guard duty? What the hell was going on? "Any hint as to why?"
"No, but maybe we'll hear that in the meeting."
"What meeting?" Crash had left for less than an hour to eat lunch in the chow hall and run by his can, and it seemed he'd missed all sorts of shit.
"Check your email."
Sighing, Crash sat and logged into his computer. Sure enough, there was an email in his inbox. They'd called a senior staff NCO meeting starting in—he glanced at the time in the corner of the screen—half an hour. At least maybe they'd finally hear what was up.
~
"No eating in the chow hall. You get your food and leave. No gathering in large groups of any kind." The Senior Enlisted Advisor, Master Gunnery Sergeant Devon, passed on that order to the stunned Marines in the room. "Direct order from the CO, Lieutenant Colonel Hinman."
Crash and close to two dozen senior staff NCOs, including Zippy, sat around the long table in the large conference room located across the hall from where Crash worked in Production Control. There were two large TVs and a big-eye for doing computer generated power point presentations, but it seemed they wouldn't be needing any of that for this meeting.
No more chow hall. Senior enlisted on roving guard duty. Weapons at arm's length, even in quarters. "What the hell is going on?"
Crash had whispered the question more to himself than to anyone else, but the guy next to him leaned close. "Ramadan's ending. They're afraid that's when the shit's gonna hit the fan."
Shit was a good word right about now.
CHAPTER 11
A week in, the no eating in the chow hall order was starting to wear on him. Crash barely took a lunch break any more. He'd get his food, bring it back to his office and eat at his desk. That made his twelve plus hour day seem to drag by even slower than usual.
Maybe he should start going back to the CLU and take his lunch breaks there with Zippy, but that would mean watching one of Zippy's weird ass TV shows.
Nope, better to stay in the office.
Crash swallowed a forkful of tuna and glanced at his screen as his email alert chimed. He smiled as a message from Trish popped into his inbox and clicked to open it.
Just checking in. You need more sardines yet? (Ick!)
Hope you're having a good day!
Trish
She was so damn cute. He hit reply and had just laid his hands on the keyboard to write a message back when, for no apparent reason, he lost signal.
Now what? He truly didn't understand how they could have such shitty internet on a major base in this day and age. He sat and waited, hoping it was just a blip and the signal would come back. The warning flashing across his screen told him this was no blip and this was no run of the mill internet outage.
The code word that crossed his screen told Crash command had cut all communications for everything coming from or going to anywhere other than Leatherneck/Bastion. This was not good.
Exterior communications were intentionally blocked for a number of reasons. Death of a military member, a visiting dignitary or high-dollar general, or an attack—either against the allies or initiated by them.
What had prompted this one? He hated to think it was a casualty. It had been so quiet lately he'd thought the precautions put in place by command for the possible attacks at the end of Ramadan had been insane. The holiday had ended yesterday at sunset, but nothing had happened last night, when Crash had assumed any attack would have come.
The sound of the base-wide alarm told Crash this was no visiting dignitary. This was an attack. The insurgents had been biding their time, or maybe celebrating yesterday, but now they were ready to fight.
He stood fast, sending his desk chair skidding behind him as he did. Crash grabbed his body armor and turned to the other personnel in the office. "Flaks and
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