The heat that Summer was oppressive. It hung on the land like a thick, heavy blanket no one wanted. The Summer heat brought with it humidity so thick people swore it could be cut with a knife. Cicadas droned their monotonous chorus through the trees interspersed throughout towns and between farmers’ fields. Normally active birds took roost in the shade of trees and the eves of buildings. 

Jason Brenner stood atop the bed of his beat-up mid-sized pick-up truck; the handles of the tripod-mounted M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun gripped tightly in his gloved hands. Sweat streamed from his blond hair and forehead to sting his bright blue eyes. A ragged, threadbare plate carrier covered a dirty black cut-off muscle shirt which hung loose on Jason’s body. Short khaki shorts were held in place around Jason’s waist by a leather belt. Brown leather boots which had seen better days planted Jason to the metal floor of the truck’s bed. A radio headset adorned Jason’s close-cropped blond hair, connected via wire to the radio clipped to his belt at his hip. Bluetooth models were available, but no one relied on wireless connection out here. 

Around Jason in the bed of the pick-up sat three of his squad of six men; Danny, Vic, and Carlos. Gabe drove the maroon vehicle, and Berny, Andy, and Matt, sat inside the once plush extended crew cab. Each man cradled a Kalashnikov AK-47 or AK-74 – the attempted AR-15 ban years before had made that weapon scarce, but people adapted and overcame the bureaucracy of the time.  Each of Jason’s men also donned plate carriers and radio sets. Gabe and Danny even had ballistic helmets. Optimists. 

The truck had been Jason’s before everything fell apart. Jason’s ownership and maintenance of the vehicle was why he stood on the back with the machine gun and the others followed his orders. It helped Jason was stronger and a better fighter than the other men in his team. It also helped they had all been high school friends in the small town where they grew up. 

“Are you sure these idiots are here?” Gabe asked from the driver’s seat, his window rolled down. The glass wasn’t bulletproof, and there was no point boiling in this heat without air conditioning. 

“The Taks Unit Commander said there was intel of insurgents here,” Jason replied. 

“Then they can see us,” Berny said with a sigh from the front passenger seat. 

Jason eyed the small, tree-covered hillock a few hundred meters in front of them. “They could see us anyway no matter which way we came up on them. They chose a good spot to operate from.” 

“Until now,” Carlos added. 

“Until now,” Jason agreed. “Drive forward, Gabe. Standard movement to contact.” 

“My favorite,” Gabe grumbled as he hit the gas. 

The beat-up maroon pick-up rolled forward over what used to be a farmer’s field, thick treaded tires digging into the sunbaked soil. The field they drove through lay fallow after years of inattention. The truck’s body wobbled and bobbed as the tires hit divots and holes, making its occupants sway and grip tightly to the vehicle’s sides. 

“Damn, Gabe, do you know how to drive?” Vic said with a whine. 

“Shut up,” Gabe grumbled. “You want to drive?” 

“No, I don’t want to be the first target for the enemy,” Vic replied. 

As if summoned by Vic’s words automatic weapons fire belted from the patch of trees, bushes and shrubs on the hillock roughly two hundred meters away. 

Jason smashed the butterfly trigger of the M2 Browning down with his thumbs and released a torrent of heavy .50 caliber rounds into the foliage. “Contact!” 

With practiced precision Gabe slowed the vehicle, and the other six men dumped out and off the truck and into a rough line on either side of it. 

“Advance!” Jason bellowed as he continued to rake the bush with machine gun fire. 

Danny, Vic, Carlos, Berny, Andy, and Matt jogged forward at Jason’s command and fired bursts from their Kalashnikov AK-47 and AK-74 automatic rifles. Gabe drove the pick-up forward to follow in line with the other six men, his own AK stuck out the window to add suppressive fire to the mix. 

Soon Jason could see the insurgents. Four men huddled around some fallen timber for cover. Too easy, Jason thought. 

“Gabe, pull up behind that berm,” Jason ordered through their radio over the din. “Berny, Andy, Matt, take up positions here and continue to lay suppressive fire. Danny, Vic, Carlos, flank left.” 

A series of calm acknowledgements flowed over the radio back to Jason as each man executed their part. As Gabe pulled behind a small berm Jason rotated the M2 Browning back and forth and sent dozens of heavy rounds towards the insurgents. Berny, Andy and Matt “mag dumped” in the insurgents’ directions – accuracy would have been nice, but this would be over soon. 

“Lift fire, advancing,” Danny said over the radio. 

A moment later Danny, Vic and Carlos dashed forward from the insurgents’ left, pelting the enemy with short bursts of fire from the AKs, while Jason and the other men ceased fire so as not to shoot their comrades. Whether they were bad at what they did, or had been worn down from seemingly endless fighting, the insurgents weren’t prepared for the attack to their left flank. Two of the insurgents swung wildly in an attempt to address the attack, only to be gunned down by Danny, Vic and Carlos. Seeing what had become of their own comrades, the remaining two insurgents quickly threw down their guns and threw up their hands. 

“Surrender!” one bearded, disheveled man yelled. “We surrender!” 

“Please!” yelled the other man, equally dirty and bedraggled as his comrade. “Don’t kill us! We surrender!” 

Jason sighed. Just another batch of cowards. 

“Three-sixty security,” Jason said. “Search them. Gabe, wheel this bad boy around and scan for anyone trying to get the drop on us.” 

“Yes, boss,” Gabe replied as he began to maneuver the pick-up around. 

Moments later the remaining two insurgents were on their knees, wrists secured behind their backs with black plastic zip-ties. After everything that’s happened, plastic is still manufactured, Jason mused as his men went about searching each insurgent. Jason had dismounted his vehicle to oversee the mop-up activities. 

Carlos approached Jason a moment later. “No intel on these guys. The two still alive say they haven’t eaten for two days.” 

“Nothing?” Jason asked. 

“They say they joined the insurgents with hopes of a meal,” Carlos said with a shrug. “They were given guns, about an hour of training on how to shoot, and orders to terrorize farmers in the area.” Carlos pointed to the bearded man who had surrendered first. “That one, his name is Phil, said they started out with six men, but two of them were killed at the first farm they tried to attack.” 

“Good to see our farmers are still tough as nails,” Jason said with a smile. “Good also to see the terrs getting desperate.” 

Terr was a term the Rhodesians had used during the Rhodesian Bush War for terrorists and insurgents who would hop the border from Mozambique and terrorize locals and farmers. The term caught on almost a century later in the now wild Midwest of the former United States. 

“Desperate, or just causing chaos to distract us,” Carlos added. 

Jason nodded. “That’s a good point. Let’s bag them up and bring them with.” 

Phil and his compatriot, Willy, were forced to lay on top of their dead comrades as space in the bed of the pick-up was scarce. Danny, Vic and Carlos sat atop Phil and Willy. 

“Let’s go,” Danny said, scrunching his nose. “These dead ones are already starting to smell.” 

Just another day in the grind, Jason thought as Gabe hit the gas. 

The truck lurched forward, then suddenly died. 

“What happened?” Jason asked from his perch. 

“I don’t know,” Gabe said as he tried to turn the key to start the pick-up, “but she won’t even turn over.” 

Jason sighed. “I guess we’re pushing.” 

A chorus of collective groans filled the air. 

“Oh shut-up!” Jason yelled back, then looked down at Phil and Willy. “Looks like you two are helping.” 

In short order Jason and his men, minus Gabe, had tied Phil and Willy to the rear of the truck, and each man began to push the beat-up pick-up truck back to base. 

“How far?” Vic asked. 

“Three miles,” Jason replied. 

“Shit, Gabe, why are you so fat?” Danny yelled. 

“Shut up!” Gabe shot back. 

“Does this mean we’ll get to go free after we help?” Phil asked. 

“Absolutely not,” Jason spat. “Now push or I’ll shoot you.” 

* 

Over an hour later Jason’s truck finally rolled into Forward Operating Base Chicken Hawk. A litany of cheers and jeers followed Jason and his men as they rolled the maroon pick-up through the main road of the FOB and into parking lot of the FOB’s maintenance shop. Phil and Willy looked as though they wish they were shot – they had no luck there. 

“Carlos, Vic, take these two to Task Unit headquarters,” Jason said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the HQ. “Once these two terrs are handed over everyone go get cleaned up, eat, and try to catch some shut eye.” 

As Jason’s men dispersed a burly man in grease-soaked overalls and a white wife beater shirt sauntered out of the open doors of the maintenance bay toward Jason. 

“What did you do this time?” the man asked. 

“Hi, Vince,” Jason said in greeting. “Not sure. She just died on us.” 

“Mmhmm,” Vince replied. “I swear you just break it to give me heartburn. This is the third time this week.” 

“Breaking things and giving them to you to repair is my love language,” Jason said with a wink. 

“Uh huh,” Vince said, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, give us a day and I’ll let you know.” 

“Thanks Vince,” Jason replied. “Now I think I’m needed at HQ.” 

Vince began to walk back to his shop, then thought of something and turned back to Jason. “And when are you going to get that giant piece of crap out of my shop?” 

“The pod?” Jason asked. 

“No, the other giant piece of crap you have covered with a tarp in the back of the maintenance bay. Yes, the pod.” 

“When I get more parts.” 

“You’ve been saying that for a year now. That pod is done. It was shot up in The War.” 

“I’m nursing it back to health.” 

Vince shook his head. “It’s still missing some major parts, Jason. I’m not sure where you’d find them in this day and age. Only the bigger cities have armored pod manufacturing, and we don’t see many in these parts.” 

“Except the Task Unit Commander’s,” Jason said. 

“Except his,” Vince agreed. “But he came from the city to lead Task Unit one-seven. We “irregulars” out in the country don’t get that kind of love.” 

“Well, I’ll be by later to work on the pod some more,” Jason said. 

Vince bade farewell to Jason, and Jason trudged his way through the FOB and toward the Task Unit headquarters – a squat, one level brick building which had been a store at one time in the not-so-distant past. 

One step into the headquarters door Jason was hit by a wall of cool, dry, refreshingly cold air. Jason took in a deep breath and allowed the chill air to fill his lungs as he closed the flimsy wooden door behind him. 

“Jason,” a deep voice said from the other side of the small room. 

Jason looked over to see Task Force Commander Josiah Gray. The tan-skinned bear of a man looked as if he was cut from marble, and when he stood, he towered over everyone else at the FOB. The brown haired, blue-eyed man from the city had been a tough task master, but was fair and rewarded his subordinates based on their merit. 

“Sir,” Jason replied as he approached Gray, but didn’t salute; new era, new army, new customs. 

“Task Unit intel has the two terrs your element rounded up,” Gray began. “We didn’t get much out of them.” 

“Neither did we,” Jason replied. 

“Thoughts?” 

Gray was the type of commander who made his subordinates think. His belief was even at their low level the Task Unit, and the eight Elements which comprised it, including Jason’s, had to be more strategic to beat the terrs and keep their homes safe. 

“I had thought maybe the terrs were getting desperate hiring simple bandits,” Jason said. “Carlos brought up the fact they may be recruiting untrained thieves and thugs to sew chaos and distract us while they prepare to attack somewhere else.” 

“And you agree with Carlos?” 

“Carlos has dealt with the terrs as much as any of us. I don’t see why his seat-of-the-pants analysis wouldn’t hold merit.” 

Gray nodded. “I’m apt to agree with both you and Carlos. According to intel reports from Squadron and Group, the terrs are losing personnel faster than they can recruit. A lot of their efforts are focused on shoring up their shortfalls with whomever they can bribe or coerce into service. On the other hand, they want to strike a blow against us to either push us back, or at least give them some breathing room.” 

“Then we should go find them.” The moment Jason let the words spill out of his mouth he knew Gray would say something. 

“That’s thinking too tactically, too low level,” Gray replied. “More than likely it will just be our Task Unit going to dig these guys out. We have to think operationally, even strategically, in our planning. Not only do we have to be two steps ahead of the enemy, we need to think of the second and third order effects of our actions on a local and regional level.” 

Jason sighed. “Yes sir.” 

“Are you “yes-sir-ing” me?” Gray asked with a chuckle. 

“Just a little too much thinking after today,” Jason said. 

“Well go get some rest. Planning begins tomorrow. I want you here tomorrow morning at zero-eight able to do your best thinking.” 

Jason loathed to think about the planning session with Gray and the other Element Commanders the next day. But, Jason reminded himself, if he wanted to continue to fight on top of his truck, and not in the line of troops on the ground, he had to attend to the duties Task Unit Commander Gray assigned him. 

Fortunately, that was a problem to worry about the next morning. Jason rushed to his room – a twenty-foot shipping container which had been modified into living quarters with plumbing, and had seen better days – dropped his gear, and made his way back to Vince’s maintenance shop. With the later hour most of Vince’s mechanics and technicians had left for the day, either returning to their billets, or their homes in the surrounding towns. Jason brushed past a plethora of civilian vehicles retooled for war in varying states of repair and disassembly – he noticed his own pick-up had its hood up and parts removed – and made his way to a small corner of the shop. 

There, in a dark alcove at the back of Vince’s maintenance shop, was a tan tarp covering what looked like a giant tennis ball, taller than a normal human being. Jason grabbed the tarp tight and yanked it off the ball to expose the armored metal shell of the pod. 

“Another night working on the armored pod,” Jason said to himself. “One day I’m going to pilot this thing.” 

Jason wasn’t sure what piloting a pod – or AP as the regular military types called them – entailed, exactly. Gray had explained it a little to him, and it seemed like an intuitive system. Jason was sure once he completed repairs on this pod, he could learn quick. 

Without another word Jason opened the overlapping armored hatches on the pod’s front to expose the pilot’s seat and controls within, and went to work.