Spainops
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« Reply #1 on: January 12, 2008, 05:14:49 am » |
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Chapter II. (Sorry, but I don't really feel like giving it a title) (By the way, since this does take place in Spain, all dialogue except for names and nicknames is considered translated)
"Get off your damn butt, private!" Shouted sergeant Torrejas as he walked by, trying to get Herrera to join in the day's training session. "Ah, what for, sergeant? Today is gunnery practice, and you know I got that down." He said with a smile, letting his head drop down into the pillow. "Besides, it's cold out there." "Of course it's cold, private, this is the Pyrenees!" The sergeant was slowly losing his patience. "But it's June! Can't they warm this freakin' place up?" He complained. "Private! Get out of the bed, put on your uniform and get out there with the rest of the squad!" The sergeant shouted, spitting unintentionally due to his fury. "OK, OK. Just give me a sec'." Herrera wasn't one to be rushed.
The private was twenty and small for his age. He measured only 5'6", but he was a tasmanian devil and had earned himself the nickname Taz. Fast and furious, he excelled at hand to hand combat and in gunnery; the latter because his grandfather had been an amazing shot and wanted someone to carry on the tradition. Juan Herrera Pico had grown up in Malaga- a coastal city in the very south of Spain- where his father, a health nut, had taught him to take care of his body. He always had a crew cut, even before he joined the army, his black hair never grown longer than an inch. His eyes were oak brown, his skin tanned like that of most other spaniards, and with a prominent hawk nose. He had developed a distaste for authority, so it surprised the family when he joined the army. Not one of his superiors could ever get him to do anything unless Taz himself figured he should do it. The only reason the army hadn't dismissed him was because he was so darned good at what he did do. If they asked him to inventory the munitions stockroom, he'd do it in record time. They figured that as long as his daring could be overlooked, he would be kept in the army.
"Hey, Taz, 'bout time!" Shouted one of the privates at the firing range when Herrera arrived. "Whatup, Carrera?" Asked Taz as he grabbed a H&K G36 assault rifle, heading over to the munitions counter to pick up a couple clips. Private Carrera got up and headed over to Taz, a devious smile on his face. "What do you have planned, you devil?" "Well, the great majority of the squad is wondering who's a better shot, you or the new guy." Carrera said. "This is a bet, I presume?" "Of course. I got seventy-five running on you, my friend, don't let me down." Carrera explained, hitting his friend on the arm as he walked back to the range. "Nothing ever changes." Taz smiled as he loaded the rifle and popped a piece of gum into his mouth. "Is this the guy?" The new recruit said when Taz came up. "That'd be me. Private Juan Herrera Pico. And you are?" "I'm Oscar Capaldo." Answered the new guy with an Argentinean accent. "I'll be part of the 42nd Squad." "Welcome to 33rd squad, my friend. Now, they say you're a good shot. Can you prove it?" Taz was ready for a challenge; few had come his way since he got transferred with his squad to the Pyrenees. "Just watch." Oscar immediately turned, aimed at a target some sixty feet away and fired. Using the integrated scope, Taz checked the shot. "Bulls-eye. But that was a cheap shot." "Excuse me?" The argentinean asked, perplexed. "That was a simple shot. This is a precision firing contest. You see that rock on top of the boulder up there?" Taz pointed out, indicating a small fist sized pebble at least two hundred feet away. "Watch this." He took aim, but for five seconds nothing happened. Then the gun jumped and the shot echoed through the valley. The pebble jumped into the air, broken into a thousand pieces, it's remains scattering in the cold northern wind. "Let me show you how it's done. See that tree over on that ledge?" Oscar said, pointing at a bare tree, black, as if burned, alone on the rocky ledge. "No shooting at the lonely tree!" Shouted a recruit from the back of the small crowd that had gathered. "The guy has a point. There is no shooting at the lonely tree." Affirmed Carrera. "What? Why the hell not?" Oscar was puzzled, looking at then tree, then back at Carrera. "It's sacred. That tree has been revered by every recruit that comes to this base." Taz informed the new guy. "And just exactly why is it revered?" "Well, you should respect it simply because it has been a tradition for the last fifty years. It's a long story. Simply know this: It's off limits." "Fine. Let's see, then. The pine over there. Notice the pine cone hanging near the top? Watch and be amazed." Oscar aimed, taking considerably longer before firing, due mainly to the fact the pine cone was approximately four hundred feet away, the target hardly visible except as a speck on the mountain. The scope eased the recognition. He fired the G36, the recoil hardly affecting him. The bullet whizzed just past his objective, rustling the pine needles nearby. "My turn." Taz lifted his finger into the air, measured wind speed and direction, then got on one knee and aimed. He fired, waited about a second, then watched the pine cone bounce in the air and fall to the ground, broken in half. "Lucky shot and a lucky son of a..." Oscar muttered as he walked off, tossing the rifle on the ground. "Come back any time!" Taz shouted after him, grinning from ear to ear.
The Spanish Army base was located in the east Pyrenees, closer to the Mediterranean Sea, where the mountains weren't quite so high and the ground was easier to tread. It was considered the weak point of the mountain chain that divided the countries of Spain and France, since it also lead straight into Cataluña, one of the Spanish Autonomous Communities, home to the second biggest city in Spain, Barcelona. This city also boasted a bustling port, numerous docks and several ship manufacturing companies, all vitally important to Spain's economy. The base itself was on top of a ridge that stood between two valleys, about ten miles away from the border. The firing range, for security purposes, was at the bottom of the valley, accessible via cable cars that went from the base to the different training facilities in the valley. Since terrain was rather difficult for vehicles, the base counted on a rather large helicopter fleet stationed only two miles away. The summer had already geared up, so most of the snow had melted and the rivers ran full of clear mountain water, but a cold front had decided to make a show, much to the annoyance of the grunts.
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"Yo, Matt!" Miguel saluted as the american entered the circle of friends. It was a friday night and, as on all friday nights, the event of the evening was the botellona. Pretty much every teenager in town came to a medium sized lot, unused by anyone but themselves on designated nights, to drink and enjoy the good company of friends. The drinking part was more highly valued, to Matt's disgust. While legally allowed to drink, Matt refused to unless it was a beer at lunch. He did not find getting drunk either fun or wise, so he kept his slate clean. When asked why, he always answered the same thing: I'd rather watch you get drunk and make an ass out of yourself than me. "Hey, Migue." He returned the salute, grabbing a cola from the cooler on the ground in the middle of the circle. "Dude, you never grab anything cool, anything to get your spirits up." One of his friends complained. "That's because my spirits don't need lifting. Besides, I don't really think a massive dose of alcohol lifts your spirits." He replied, emphasizing the last three words. "Well, you're no fun." Migue laughed as he took another sip at his glass. "You will be in less than an hour, though." Matt retorted lightly, smiling at the jest.
Time passed quickly as Matt enjoyed the night, mingling with the rest of the crowd, then returning to his friends to find several already drunk. After teasing them a little while by making them do things rather impossible in such a frame of mind, Matt decided to walk over to Maria, a girl he had long fancied but never had the courage to actually ask. His shyness earned him little, though it earned Maria a boyfriend. She smiled as Matt walked over, lifting her half empty glass in acknowledgment. Her boyfriend, Enrique, was nowhere to be seen. Enrique was also a member of the town Taekwondo class, and due to his size and mass, could easily make Matt sweep the floor. "How you doing, Matt?" She asked as he took a seat next to her on the ground. "Doing well, as always. And you?" He had never changed his response; every time she asked him that question, he'd answer it the same way. "Having fun!" She answered, laughing as if to prove her point. "You sure?" Matt felt uneasy about her reaction, she seemed to hide herself behind a veil of agreeability. "Yeah, of course." Her smile diminished slightly, her true self quickly shining through. "Well, you know where I'll be if you change your mind." He got up, returning her half-hearted smile with a true one of his own.
But as he left the place where she sat, Enrique and several of his friends blocked off his path, denying him the return to his circle of friends. "Hey, Warmonger." Enrique spat as he stepped in front of Matt. "What is it, Enrique?" The american took the insult directly, deciding to ignore it. "I just saw you sit with my girl. What, you trying to sway her over to the lesser american ways?" He laughed, the rest of the posse following suit. "You know as well as I do that I've lived here long enough to hardly even have 'american ways'." "Oh, really? What about your american way of crying?" One of the posse spoke out, referring to an incident in ninth grade. "That is none of your business, you freakish son of a drunk prostitute!" Suddenly, Matt lost his temper. He took a step towards the person that insulted him and raised his fists in anger, his nostrils flaring. Enrique's arm shot out and caught him in the chest, temporarily knocking him off balance. It was long enough. Before Matt could even react, he received a powerful kick to the stomach, sending him on a brief flight with destination hard ground. This garnered the attention of many of the people in the lot, and soon a great circle formed about them. Enrique tried to stomp on Matt's chest, but the american rolled out of the way just in time, forcing himself to his feet shortly thereafter. Dirt covered his black button up shirt, his blue jeans partly ripped from a broken bottle on the ground. Matt dusted himself off and assumed a fighting stance. Enrique smiled deviously, slowly nearing him with his guard up. A sudden side tackle knocked him to the ground, the two figures rolling in the dirt as shouts erupted from them. "Alex!" Matt shouted as he recognized the figure and voice. Without a moment's hesitation he ran over to where the two brawled, smashing at each other with bare fists. Powerful arms grabbed Matt, retaining him from the fight, and soon may more got in the way of the two amateur wrestlers. "Don't you ever touch my brother again!" Alex screamed, his face red and his blood hot. Migue, Fran and Diego all held Alex in place, while several other friends held Matt, who by now had calmed down. People from Enrique's posse held him still, all fearing another outbreak. The three stared each other down, slowly backing away and eliminating the need for restraint. Without a word, both parties walked away, fuming in anger. "Why the hell won't you let me kick his ass?" Alex asked as they left. "It's not worth it, dude." Matt answered, breaking away from the group and heading off into the night.
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The moon shone brightly over the rocky terrain, illuminating everything in front of him. He quietly observed the surroundings, not moving an inch of his body as his eyes diligently scanned for movement. Unable to notice anything out of the ordinary, he pressed the button to talk, but hesitated when it came time to actually break the silence. What bugged him? He never had had this feeling before and it really bothered him. With a small static emission, the squad leader broke in on his thoughts. "No sign of movement. No signs of enemy presence. Squad, forward, low." "I may not like it, and I sure don't have to roll with it." He told himself with a smile, detaching from the squad without a sound or trace. His captain probably wouldn't even find out till he returned. He headed uphill through the rocks, lithely making his way through the natural maze of boulders and pine trees. His squad continued below him, heading east along the waist of the mountain while he ran north up the slope. They were near a radar installation, a vital position which covered most of Spain's east coast; while it was heavily defended, Herrera felt that not reinforcing it was the dumbest idea any politician could've had. What happened to the days when generals ran things? When the top dogs of the military kept track of the events concerning the armed forces? Dim-witted politicians.
He had climbed for the last ten minutes over the rocks, silently making his way uphill to get a better view of the moonlight valley. The remainder of his squad were about seventy five feet below, trudging along with their senses at maximum alert. Intel had suggested enemy activity in the area, so several squads were dispatched to key locations to investigate said intelligence. Private Herrera, bored with the mission, broke off and had headed up the mountain, curious as to his surroundings. He discerned a good scenic spot from which his squad should be visible and began to head in the general direction, anxious to get a good look around. Human breathing reached his ears, though, and Private Herrera crouched, disengaging the safe on his G36 assault rifle. Each step was taken slowly, cautiously, the ground carefully examined before his foot even touched it. Silence was the key and life was behind the door. Herrera maneuvered around a large boulder and spotted a hunched figure, holding a long rifle in his hands, aiming down the mountain. Without a sound and full of cautious optimism, the private crept up on his unknown opponent. When finally right next to the crouching figure, Herrera could discern the camouflage pattern, the night-sight equipment on the rifle and long range telescopic scope. This man was a sniper. Taking care not to make any noise, private Herrera moved his head so as to catch the flag embroidered on the right sleeve. The red, white and blue stripes of the French flag almost seemed to shine under the moon, revealing that peace was probably a long deceased ally. The spanish soldier rose steadily and observed the surrounding area, searching for the sniper's spotter or squad. Seeing no evidence of them, he returned his attention to the unsuspecting frenchman. Several ideas went through his mind about how to go about the dilemma, and while reason and logic were highly esteemed in his mind, another idea took priority. Herrera lifted his right boot, smiled, and sent the french soldier off the cliff with a kick.
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