Failure, a word to describe when your plans go wrong, and you don't accomplish anything that you've set out to do.
PING.
A bullet bounced against the steel bmp door that I took cover against, ringing out a loud and rather unpleasant sound as the roar of gunfire continued.
…
Where did it go wrong? Did we have a snitch? Or were they simply too alert and cautious?
PING!
Sigh, Well? Fact of the matter is, The cat was out of the bag. And quite frankly? It was super fucking pissed.
Aiming down the sights, I fire my weapon at the enemy once more, killing a soviet soldier now as everything just was oh so very fucking wrong.
"Yuri! Give me covering fire!" I raise a quick brow at this. It was Boris. Now what could he possibly do with covering fire?
Sigh. Well, whatever. If he dies it doesn't matter. The whole plan's gone up in smoke anyway. All of us were fucked whether we liked it or not.
Aiming down my sights, I start firing short bursts, signalling for him to go run and try and do...well, whatever the fuck he was trying to do really.
Within the second, I see him make a mad dish for the small crater in front of me, The one with the dead radioman in it. Not thinking, I continued to cover him, the other guys that were still with us soon followed in suit as we shot at people, not even aiming really, just pointing at shooting at them.
Keeping up my fire, I see him now make a mad leap for the hole, Landing flat on his stomach as he frantically picks up the radio, fumbling with the buttons as he curses. Oh, BAM! There's another one down.
Not having time to focus on him, I continue to fire, rather conservatively I must add. After all, all the ammo in this convoy was for those fucking terrorists after all. Well, It should be. Problem was, the chances of us dying before getting all of this fucking ordinance to the them was really fucking high.
Sigh. I don't even know why I'm even trying anymore.
The bullets whizz by my face as I continue to aim down the sights, not much caring for the bullets, only focusing down the sights, finding someone, anyone really. And to pull the trigger and end their miserable fucking life. This was war after all, and as much I recognize the futility of this situation, No way in hell was I going to die not dragging any of these fuckers with me.
I mean, hey. If I can't live and go home, then none of these fuckers can.
In all honesty? I didn't have any hope in the situation. It was just so fucked. Fucked beyond all relief, that if literally anyone saw it, they would simply walk out of the fucking room, hoping that they wouldn't be caught up in this fucked up mess of a situation.
Now, I like living as much as the next guy, but you just gotta know when to call it quits. To fold your cards, save your losses and just go home. Well, It's not like I have much to save, I was dead either way.
I guess, it was because of the fact that I knew that I was gonna die, that I didn't even bother running, to haul ass and try to jack a BMP and just...get the fuck outta dodge as the Americans would say.
If I die, then I won't die a bitch. That was like, the one thing I've revolved and settled on after spending so much time in this fucking hellhole. Maybe that's why, when pieces of shrapnel flew by and scraped my forehead, I didn't even panic when the blood started to fall, blinding my eyes with the mixture of sweat and blood.
I merely ripped out a piece of cloth from my pants, and tied that shit around my forehead, wiping away the sweat and blood as I soon continued to focus on the enemies before me.
The remains of that woman's unit, that were loyal to the new captain, along with a mixture of both new recruits and men from other units now posted in this one.
It was a very haphazard mix of undesirables. But eh, who am I to speak on what is desirable and what's not? I mean, I've somehow got the majority of that woman's unit on my side after all, and we're even helping out the enemy no less! All for the sake of just getting that damned woman back.
I swear, even when she's gone, she still makes trouble for me.
A low, steady rumble takes me out of my thoughts as I see something distant in the skies. It was small, but to my surprise, it gradually became bigger and bigger as the seconds went by. And pretty soon, I knew what it was.
"...Fuck. And here I was, hoping for an open casket." A defeated smile mixed in with incredulousness now formed on my face as it got closer and closer.
"..." I said nothing as I quickly took aim once again, paying the jet no mind as I focused on killing as much as I could now.
"..." The seconds passed by as I kept on firing, the gun fire never withering away as the guys with me realized the futility of trying to run away from a fucking fighter jet, and choose to stay and fight until the bitter end.
"...?" As I continued to fire, I couldn't help but raise a confused brow. After all, I was supposed to be dead by this point, the fighter no doubt killing me and blowing me and the guys next to me to smithereens.
But much to my shock, that didn't happen.
No, The opposite of what I expected happened.
The lone fighter jet opened fire on the loyalists that remained in the new captain's unit.
A salvo or two ripped them apart, and explosions caused by the missiles killed a good number of them as it passed by us, no doubt getting ready to turn around for another gunning run.
Taking my eyes off of the plane, I looked at the enemies in front of me now. All of which were running, hauling ass with their tails tucked between their legs as they frantically drove and ran off.
"..." The men said nothing now as they looked at the scene in shunned awe and amazement. After all, we had just thought that we'd be dead by this point.
The plane made another pass towards us, this time banking right before flying off. A red dog with a spiked collar making up the tail of his plane...Wait a minute, plane? Wasn't...wasn't that an American aircraft?...What was it...F….15? The hell was going on here?
Silence now donned all around us as we all looked in confusion. How in the hell were we still alive? Like come on! This is just getting ridiculous! Does god like playing around with us? If so, what a sick bastard he is!
Footsteps bring us out of our stunned lull, It was Boris. Great. Maybe he can explain what the hell just happened, because I sure as hell can't. And even if I could, I wouldn't like it. Having to explain why an American Jet fighter is in Afghanistan airspace… Gives me the shivers just thinking about it. Even more so considering the fact that technically, Me and Sofiya's boys are well?...Rouge. Traitors, deserters? You name it, and we were it.
"That was close huh? Had to phone a friend. Bastard was busy so he phoned another friend, who in turn phoned another...You know what? You get the point." Boris said with an easygoing grin as the fires from the American jet raged around us, filling the air with the thick smell of smoke and death.
"...Sigh..." Saying nothing, I sigh with exasperation and annoyance. This shit was just ridiculous. And giving me a headache at that, much to my annoyance.
The men say nothing as they notice my sigh of despair, instead opting to smile, to enjoy their small, insignificant victory against death… I fucking hate these bastards.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The trucks gently jumped up and down from the unpaved wild roads of Afghanistan, making my ass sore in the process. But hey? When has it not? God I fucking hate this shit hole of a country!
Taking a drag from my cancer stick, I find that not even that can take the scowl off of my Japanese face. Instead, it makes it worse. After all, this could very well be my last one for all I know.
The truck that I'm on is silent. Not even Sofiya's men are saying anything, not even a mutter nor whisper. It was just...silence, An uneasy silence as they looked at me, most likely trying to get a read on me or something. Not that I care, I find that even the simple act of caring is quite difficult these days.
But eh, that in itself is hypocritical. After all, I'm doing THIS. That means that I still technically care about living, about going home and all of that. But in the end, does it really matter if I have to do this shit anyways? Like, all of this? Just to go home?
Sigh, I don't even know anymore.
I don't know.
I don't even know myself anymore, so please. Your looks and observations are quite distracting. Please, cease and desist. For your gaze is most certainly not going anywhere. I mean, how could you know whatever the fuck I'm planning and doing? When I myself have no fucking clue on what to plan and do next?
All of this? Was just a fucking gamble. And it somehow worked, Hell, I was half convinced that we would die in the first half of the plan, much less make it this far. I literally have no fucking plan after we get this shit to the enemy. Literally no fucking clue.
I'm not in control. I never was. And even if I was, I'm certain with a doubt that some shit would happen, and wrestle it away from me. So please, trust not in me for I have no trust in you. Trust in Boris, that despicable yes man of yours. He probably doesn't know what he's doing either, but hey! At least he's you're fucking friend, something in which I am not.
"...Hah." Another grunt of annoyance, another sign of despair that I let loose from my lips as I cross my arms across my chest, the not so distant memory of that American jet racing in my mind.
Why in the bloody hell would an American fighter jet be here? In Afghanistan of all places? It doesn't make sense. Especially when you factor in the fact that it came to save us...the soviets. Granted, we were fighting other soviets, but that doesn't change the fact that Boris knows a guy who knows a guy who has an American pilot in his pockets. How deep does this web go?
Ugh, I don't want to find out. If I do, It'll certainly make this war much more distasteful. Having to fight a guerilla war during the last, dying years of the soviet union was ghastly enough, but now this? I sure as hell don't want to have to deal with political intrigue as well!
And first of all, how in the hell did that American jet get into this country? The soviets and the Americans weren't exactly friends during this era, considering the fact that the Americans were currently funneling in supplies and weapons for those fucking terrorists like a store with a, "Everything has to go!" Sign tacked on all of their shit, (discount included)
So why? Why? Why was all of this shit happening? And what were the factors that were enabling it to happen?
...Hah. See what I'm talking about? One question leads to ten, It's fucking ridiculous is what it is. There's also the fact that I literally have not gotten a good nights sleep ever since I came here, and also, I've gone fucking rouge. Any moment I might die, in fact, I'm waltzing with death with fucking high heels on, with no knowledge on how to dance either! I literally could stumble and fall at any given possible moment, and that would be it.
Goodbye Hachiman! Your life was short, but hey, you got to experience all that wacky hi jinks in Afghanistan!... Don't fuck with me. I'm not gonna take that, not lying down I'm not.
As the truck continues to gently rumble I merely grimace as to what will happen next.
Sigh…
Uncrossing my arms, I free them so that I may take yet another drag from my death stick. As I exhale that sweet yet nauseating smoke made out of the remnants of the tobacco still burning brightly on my cancer stick, I can't help but close my eyes in sadness and in defeat.
As expected, my life...Is so fucking wrong.