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I'm trying to write 1000 words a day--pulpy science fiction, that sort of thing. Mmm-hmm. |
| A thousand words a day of pulpy science fiction starts, shorts, and sketches. Maybe some of them will be fleshed out at some point. Or, you know--maybe not. Hmm. |
| 100 Days of 1000 Words-a-Day--Day 3 of 100 Jake picked up the backpack that was leaning against the wall near the hangar door, hefted, it, and immediately knew—it wasn’t heavy enough. He put it back down. “I thought these things were packed,” he said as he kneeled down, unzipped the top, and peered inside. “They are packed,” said Jackie from the other side of the open hangar door. “This one’s not,” Jake said. He stood up and the backpack fell over. “It doesn’t have any water in it.” He turned to the uniformed troops—all male, all young—who were watching him. “Y’all check your packs,” he said gruffly. There was a beat, and then the assembly started doing exactly that. “Mine’s empty,” said one troop. Then from farther along the line: “Mine too.” Already Jackie was on the phone. “Carter!” she barked into it. “This is Major Sheffield. You guys have screwed up the packing again. We’re three hours out and we’ve got light packs. Now why the hell is that?” She listened, her lips pursing, then she caught Jake’s eye and shook her head. “That’s a bunch of bulls***, Captain. You get your guys out here to pack these packs, and if I don’t see movement in 10 minutes, I’m going to come ride your ass over here and you can pack them yourself!” She put the phone in its cradle and responded to Jake’s questioning expression with a shrug. “Ah, that guy’s worthless,” Jake said. Then he turned to his troops. “All right, fellas. Grab your gear and come with me.” “Carter will send somebody,” Jackie said. “Screw that s***,” Jake responded. “We’ll go fill them up ourselves.” He strode out of the hangar, his men following him. They crossed the concrete pad, entered the opposite hangar, and ganged around a faucet attached to a spigot. Jackie followed them, and when she stepped inside, she saw that the men were filling their pack bladders with water from the hose. “That’s kind of low-tech, isn’t it?” she asked. “Water is water,” Jake said. Then he turned to the men. “Everyone fill up. Check your med boxes. I want to be sure everyone has full morphines.” “Ah, sir, we’ll have to break the seals to open the boxes,” a sergeant said. “Break the seals. I don’t trust the med guys any more than I trust Captain Carter, and those morphines….” He fingered the ugly scar on his left forearm, which protruded from shis smartly rolled uniform blouse sleeve. “Well, if we end up needing those, we’re going to need them.” Jackie pursed her lips again. “I believe that’s a tautology, Major,” she said. Jake shrugged and turned his attention to a six pack pulling up to the hangar door. Some of Carter’s personnel got out. Two of them moved to the back of the truck and started unloading backpacks and setting them on the concrete; one of them, an older woman dressed in the uniform of a staff sergeant, approached Sheffield. “You’ve got some light packs, Ma’am?” “Y’all stand by, my troops are inspecting their packs,” Jake answered. “Inspect the packs?” the staff sergeant repeated dully. “That’s right, inspect the packs. We’re going to inspect the med boxes too,” he said. “It’s against regulations to break the seals.” “Saunders, you got any med boxes?” Jackie asked, reading the staff sergeant’s name from her nametape. “Ah, yes, Ma’am. We’ve got five or six of them, I think.” “Good,” Jake said. One of his own men had already pulled some tables from the side of the hangar and had formed an inspection line; the others were methodically pulling items out of their packs and organizing them on the tables. As the packs were inspected and deemed acceptable, one of the men would take one and strap it to his back. Four or five of the men were so outfitted before the first bad med box was found. “Major, this one’s missing a morphine,” Sergeant Gillespie reported from behind the inspection table. “Missing a morphine,” Jake repeated. He turned to Major Sheffield. “How does a morphine go missing?” Sheffield, for her part, turned to Saunders. “Well? Tell the major how a morphine goes missing.” “I don’t know, Ma’am,” the sergeant said. “Well, I do,” Jake answered. He strode over to the back of the truck to where the two men who had gotten out of the truck to unload the replacement backpack, having surmised that the backpacks might not be needed after all, were standing waiting to see what would happen. Jake boldly approached the nearest one, reached out his hand, and grasped the man’s blouse by the breast pocket. “What do you have in there, Mister?” he asked. “Nothing, sir.” “Doesn’t feel like nothing,” Jake said. “Empty it out.” The sergeant’s eyes went wide and he looked over at Saunders, who also was staring at the exchange. “Empty it, I said!” Jake repeated in a command voice. The sergeant’s hand went to his breast pocket. He unbuttoned it, pulled out a morphine pack, and laid it on the open tailgate. By now, Jackie had maneuvered her way to the back of the truck, and she took note of the sergeant’s nametape—Rones. “You have some sort of injury, Sergeant Rones?” she asked. Rones’ only answer was a scowl. “That’s how morphine packs go missing,” Jake said. Then, to Saunders: “You leave me all your med boxes and get the hell out of here. Now.” Saunders’ yes sir was lost in the approaching roar of a helicopter, which was taxiing into position between the hangars. It stopped and Jackie could see the pilot through the Plexiglas canopy waving. “Get that truck out of here, Saunders,” Jackie yelled, and Saunders started moving. Saunders got into the driver’s side of the truck, powered it up, and drove it out of the way of the helicopter, which then continued taxiing until it was precisely between the two hangars. An older man descended from the interior; as he got closer, the two stars on the front of his uniform jacket became discernable. Sheffield, who was standing outside the hangar, came to attention and saluted. The general saluted back and kept walking, right past her and into the hanger. “Jake. You people aren’t ready yet?” he asked. “No, sir. We’ve got light packs and some morphine is missing.” The general whirled around. “You supply?” he sputtered to Sheffield. “Ah, yes sir, Major Sheffield,” Jackie said, identifying herself. “We’ve identified some personnel problems this afternoon.” “I guess so,” the general said, turning back to Jake and his men, who were wrapping up their pack inspections. |
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