Chapter 7: Something’s Gotta Give

Easter morning!

Something like six weeks ago Sam called, and I was off to San Diego and rescued someone I never knew existed. A couple of weeks in California, marriage, almost a month in the middle of a harem, and now I was keeping my girls occupied while the harem set out Easter baskets and hid eggs that the kids dyed the previous day.

Sad, awful really, but none of my loves had ever had a real Easter. Sarah had tried, but confined to a windowless basement, her resources were limited. When the rest of the ladies and our guardian detachment learned, a blitzkrieg was launched. Huge baskets filled with jellybeans, peeps, three chocolate rabbits – everybody had a favorite that had to be included in each basket. Stuffed animals.

Chastity and Rachel were as excited as the kids, though tried hard to keep appearances in check. Becky was energy unleashed. She traded for favorites and gorged until she was sick, vomited, and repeated. After the second time, I reined her in by placing her on my lap with her new bunny and popped jellybeans into her mouth, one at a time. Hey, I was a new parent; what did I know?

Becky’s posse didn’t manage to eat themselves quite as sick, but they were close. We responsible parents finally confiscated the baskets and hid them, remainders to be rationed and consumed at a more reasonable pace. I suppose it gives an idea of the amount of the original contents when I can say that there was plenty left even after Becky twice ate herself sick.

For the record, I was now Logan’s in loco parentis and took charge of his basket, too. I don’t know if he had more capacity or better control, but he only ralphed once and even managed to make it to a restroom, so less of a mess.

All in all it was an over-the-top successful Easter for the kids. For Chastity and Rachel, too. Somewhere Pete found recipes or instructions for something called ‘Boozy Bunnies’ and asked the cooks to make up a batch. Turned out the troops liked Boozy Bunnies better than Jell-O Shots, and wonder of wonders, Rachel liked them, too. We were saved by breakfast served by the detachment’s cooks who had glued rabbit ears and bunny tails to their white protective suits.

Some of us watched Pope Francis deliver Easter Sunday Mass in an almost empty St. Peter’s Basilica and the services delivered by other denominations to empty churches. Painful. Four of our ‘regular’ cooks were off duty and had suited up to join us. For once I felt lucky to be sequestered with all these folks, because it did feel a little like having a real congregation around me.

Then one Easter service was hijacked by a hateful demagogue spewing the “Sin of Eve’ diatribe. Tears flowed. Luckily we had some recovery time before our noon meal.

The U.S. Military has a tradition for Thanksgiving that, no matter where or what, service members have a special meal, and especially overseas, military families are invited to eat in the dining facilities with them. To a lesser extent, this tradition is extended to other major holidays, and our sergeant major decided that we were ‘overseas’ and called up a feast. The cooks out did themselves for us and for the whole detachment.

When he learned of Ruby’s decree, General Stilton proved he was no REMF (Rear Echelon Mother Fucker for you civilians reading) by following the holiday tradition – not only by being on the front lines with his troops, but by carving and serving the huge ham. He and his family appeared among us as we moved to the laden table, all clad in specially decorated isolation suits with their pictures silk screened on the chest. His twin sons were yellow peeps, his wife a giant Easter egg, and the General was a large, purple bunny.

As he cut off thick slices of ham, Stilton explained for the benefit of the civilians, “Anyone know why I’m a purple bunny?” Silence. “Three days from now, April fifteenth, is ‘Purple Up! For Military Kids Day’, when we celebrate the strength and sacrifices of our military children. And today a little early, it is my pleasure to welcome Chastity and Becky into our family.”

After the General visited for a little over an hour, Sergeant Major Schaaft arrived as a camouflage bunny. She apologized for stealing the general and his family but told us that she had promised her detachment that they could visit with the General as well. “But I made sure we have time for us to get group and individual pictures with the General.”

Cell phones appeared, multiple groups posed, and more happiness occurred. As the group departed, one of the general’s twins was heard to lament, “What a total bitch that all those sweet looking chicks were removed from the dating pool.”

From down the table, I heard Patrice ask Rachel, “Do you think Virgil could make like a bunny and put a little something extra in my basket?” and from April, “Hussy! I was going to ask.” Followed by a joint, “Double team?”

What I needed was a nap, but Chastity and Rachel had no sympathy – they wanted to watch!

It was going too smooth. I was expecting something, but just didn’t know what, when, or how.

It was Friday, and close to chow time, we were sitting around in the lounge. My phone sang, and when I answered, Sergeant Major Schaaft informed me, “Sir! We are under attack. Looks to be about twenty-five intruders armed with assorted semi-automatic rifles. We saw four carrying gas cans and buckets, so looks like an attempt to burn us out. A perimeter guard spotted and challenged one of them and took a bullet. Her partner downed the bastard and reported in.”

“Lieutenant Peters and the Major were planning to come through the cafeteria airlock with the cooks delivering the evening meals. None of them are armed, and this frontal attack may be diversionary, I advise you to arm up and check on your backdoor.” She sounded calm and pissed off at the same time. “And Sir, please make sure your people have fire extinguishers.”

“Arming up, Sergeant Major,” I told her, “Leaving the phone connected and in my pocket. Keep me posted ready.”

I hated calling on and exposing untrained personnel, but if the sergeant major was correct, their lives were in danger anyway. I decided it was best to let my ladies help and commanded, “Lieutenant Anderson, Sergeant Brown, we’re under siege. Arm up and bring me an M4 and extra magazines. One of you stay and cover the hall, the other follow me when you can.”

I turned to my assistant, “Logan, you and Lois take the little kids to the nursery and keep them occupied. Mothers, take the babies and go with them. Some of you get fire extinguishers, but stay way back unless we need them for sure. I’m going ahead, very carefully.”

With a grin and a salute, Logan turned and began rounding up and herding the youngest down the hall opposite the one leading to the cafeteria.

Before I could turn down my hall, Eva was back with my M4 and slings with extra magazines. “I’m coming with, sir,” she told me. “I re-qualified sharpshooter with the M-16 two months ago, but I’m not worth crap with the M-9 pistol.”

As we began to move forward, Eva explained, “The Lieutenant hasn’t been on the range since she left Fort Sam. She’ll hold the fort. She also gave me a direct order to cover your ass and to remind you that you are the only source of relief for twenty-two people.”

“Copy that, Sergeant. Lock and load,” I told her. “If you need to shoot, three-round bursts to mid torso. Don’t hesitate to fire if you’re sure it’s not one of our own. Otherwise, we’ll just have to see.” I didn’t bother to remind her – if a man’s protective gear was holed, the man inside was as good as dead, but he wasn’t dead yet.

“Roger that, sir.” And we were off down the hall, crouched and spread out as much as we could.

We entered the cafeteria and immediately stepped inside left and right, taking the walls on opposite sides. There were five intruders in sight, but I assumed that there were more back in the kitchen. Their protective gear wasn’t Army standard, but they held two figures with arms behind them. Jenny and Pete, by their PPE markings.

Three of the suited figures carried a five-gallon plastic ‘paint’ bucket with tops. Not a sign of good intentions. But tactical geniuses, these bozos were not; because the buckets meant they had to carry their rifles slung. The buckets looked to be completely full, as the porters were leaning with their pistol arms out to the side for balance.

A voice rang out, “Well, look at the special snowflake and his trained pussy. Stole my rightful project, you did. Drop your weapons or your girlfriends here die.” It was, of course, the pissant Lieutenant Colonel Ridgemount.

Before I could act or reply, two bursts of three shots rang out, and the two suits to Ridgemount’s left, unprotected by the small women, began to collapse and release their buckets. While attention was focused on me, Eva had elected to fire. The two hostages, trained in self-protection techniques, immediately stomped on their captor’s instep and fell forward.

As they fell, I had no clear shot at Ridgemount, and instead took out the suit to his right. But Eva had the angle and managed yet another shot that at least wounded Ridgemount who fell forward onto the figure I was certain to be Pete.

I called out, “You’re dead, Ridgemount! Any further harm to my people, and you’ll die alone coughing out your lungs. Give it up, and maybe you’ll live after all.”

“Virgil,” Pete called, “forget the pissant, there’s three more in the kitchen with homemade napalm.”

Ridgemount raised a pistol as Eva and I both started around the pile to head for the kitchen. Torn between firing at me or Eva, he hesitated just long enough for Jenny to kick back like a mule and catch Ridgemount under the chin, snapping his head back. It didn’t quite kill him, but we later found he had a major case of whiplash.

That was the least of his problems. Reflexes caused him to fire two rounds. One penetrated his hand still clinging to Pete and continued on to tear a hole in her PPE and then her ear. The second bullet struck Jenny in the calf.

Pete rolled over, and without hesitation, grabbed Ridgemount’s pistol and squeezed off a round into Jenny’s captor who was scrambling for his own weapon. The bullet tore into his groin and up through his body, ripping a large hole as it exited. Kicking feet and the instant smell of piss and shit signaled his death. Pete kept rolling and immediately started to examine Jenny’s wound.

As Eva and I moved to the kitchen, I asked softly, “You still want right, or you better firing left?

“I’m quicker right, so you take the left,” she whispered back.

The kitchen was a mess. Three bodies lay next to the overturned trolleys and the evening meal was spread in an arc across the nearby floor. It was less than a week after Easter and two of the cooks still wore their bunny ears. A fourth body’s foot was preventing the door into the airlock from closing. Air whistled into the kitchen. Clearly, the decontamination chamber had been compromised, and I blessed the building’s negative air pressure...

By that blocked door stood a figure, rifle at port arms, apparently covering their rear but looking our way. Two others were wrestling with one of the buckets and pouring a line of thick goop from the stoves in back towards the front of the kitchen. If this was flammable, and I was sure it had to be, I wondered how these idiots thought they would get out of the burning building. Front door?

My thoughts didn’t slow my response, and I fired at one then the other while Eva put down the ‘sentry’ at the door as he tried to bring his weapon to bear. She walked over, bent over, and called out, “Dead. Rifle was in the way for a body shot, so I went for the head. I’ll get this door closed.”

As I walked over to my targets, I replied, “Careful in case someone’s outside. My two are wounded. They were too busy to bring up their weapons, so I thought our epidemiologists might like to have some live rats to watch. Horrible way to die, but so is being burned alive. Once that door is secured, let’s get mine out of their gear so you can patch their wounds.”

I reached over and pulled the pistols from their holsters and laid them on a nearby worktable alongside the idiots’ rifles lying there. I pulled out my phone and told Sergeant Major Schaaft, “Appears to be clear inside, Sergeant Major. Not sure about the decontamination chamber or the outside.”

Hearing, “My girls will get it, sir,” I continued my briefing. “We have four cooks dead in here. I think the major and captain are wounded, but I need to check. There were eight intruders, four are definitely dead, maybe five, and the rest are wounded. We need medics, probably a surgeon, and a cleanup team for goop that looks like homemade napalm. The shit’s all over the bottom half of the two wounded in the kitchen. I managed to step around it, but it will be tricky getting them clear to treat their wounds.”

Eva approached, and I told her, “If you’ll watch this pair, I’ll check on the others. Watch out for the mess on the floor, it’s sticky and volatile.”

I walked back into the cafeteria to find Jenny’s suit peeled back from her leg, and Pete with her headgear removed was bending over to apply pressure to an apparent wound. Blood was running down the side of Pete’s face, and Misty, fire extinguisher laid to one side, was valiantly trying to stop the bleeding without hampering Pete’s efforts.

Cynthia was standing between Ridgemount and his crony, holding her extinguisher like a ball bat and waiting for movement. She was shivering but steadfast, so I kissed her forehead, and told her. “You did good, Honey. I’ve got these bozos. Get those two buckets upright, and then fetch Karen. Tell her it’s all clear, but we need her for the wounded.”