Chapter Three
The sun was high in the clear blue sky as they approached the Bolivarian supply depot. It would be a milk run. The depot had minor military significance, but was perfect for their first full-scale op, sort of a graduation for the entire platoon. The plantation fields around the depot had recently been harvested, so they had a clear view of the target, but that cut both ways--the Bolies would see them coming, too. That was kind of the idea.
Zeb had already been out on numerous training missions, practice maneuvers. They'd even provided recon and target designation support to conventional forces. This would be the first time they'd come in direct contact with the enemy and hopefully, yes hopefully, come under fire.
Zeb couldn't see the drones, the high-altitude monitoring platforms, and spysats above him, but he knew they were there. Some of them fed waypoint and target locations to his Heads-Up-Display, while others recorded every detail of what was happening for later analysis. Zeb imagined some analyst later counting how many times he'd scratched his ass. That was another reason for the low-priority objective--less chance of anti-drone or anti-EM countermeasures getting in the way of the nerds collecting the data they wanted.
They approached down a drainage ditch that ran alongside a small road. The depot operated under cover of a retail biofuel station, externally identical to hundreds of others across the Venezuelan countryside. Fuel dispensing pumps and a pay station sat closer to the road, with a corrugated metal processing building farther back. In some of the fuel drums inside, they'd find weapons, ammo, and supplies outbound to the Bolivarian-controlled jungle. In others, there'd be coca and synthetic recreationals destined for urban hellholes like Mogadishu, Beirut, and Detroit, as well as pirate pharma for the suburbs and wealthy urban centers.
The ditch disappeared into a culvert about 200 yards out, and they emerged onto the open ground, fanning out toward cover. The moist ground erupted around them with the zip, zip, zip of impacting rounds like angry wasps, followed a split-second later by the loud burps of Chinese QBZ assault rifles.
When the first round went through Zeb's belly, he heard it more than felt it, his uniform popping with a wet sound like an overfilled garbage bag. The wound itself was hot and kind of tickled, like your stomach gurgling when you're really hungry. He didn’t break stride when the second round went through his thigh, like a finger of gentle warmth, suddenly there where it hadn’t been a second ago.
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During Zeta’s training, they’d done lots of OPFOR wargames with crazy new rules--when your sensor vest beeped to indicate you'd been hit, you didn't just lay down and wait for the medics to practice their drill. No, you just kept going like nothing had happened.
If it was your lucky day, the central controller would radio you something like: "Moderate damage, 1/4 inch by 3 inch fracture, non-penetrating," which you'd then have to relay to your commanding officer. Depending on the (simulated) damage and operational orders, you might be ordered to continue, hold your position, or withdraw entirely from the field of battle. But there were things you just couldn't practice, stuff like taking a bullet through the gut. The science geeks were actually hoping for some casualties, hence the noontime approach over open ground.
A regular soldier might’ve been able to keep on going with either the gutshot or leg wound that Zeb had just taken, as long as they missed the spine, femur, or major arteries. But both in combination would’ve dropped anyone in their tracks. But just like in the wargames, Zeb had kept going.
He made it to the side of a rusted-out Heibao flatbed and took cover behind the cab section. He looked down and saw the pulpy, dark-purple ooze dribbling from the holes in his uniform.
Zeb peeked around the front fender and located muzzle flashes from the door and window of a concrete outbuilding. He raised his weapon to take aim.
Something impacted his helmet with a dull KRUNK.
In the wargames, if you got the fast beep, that meant you got tagged in the head, and you did the Stop-Drop-Check. They'd also done lots of drills with these heavy, plastic training helmets. They'd stand in a line and the gunney sergeant would walk behind them, cracking them each in the dome with a ball-peen hammer. It was supposed to simulate taking a headshot. Stop-Drop-Check.
Zeb did that now. He dropped to the ground, rolling backward behind the cover of the wheel well. He let go of his rifle to hang from its sling, then pulled off his gloves, the gummy seal at the wrists parting with a sucking sound. He felt all around his helmet in a methodical pattern, starting at the middle of the forehead, then back over the top, down to his neck, moving outward in sections to sweep front-to-back, until he’d felt every part of the helmet. The helmet Zeb was wearing was made out of bazillion dollar nano-composites. It was rated to withstand the 5.8 mm DBP-32 ammo that the Chinese PLA supplied the Bolivarians with. Zeb hadn’t detected any damage or cracks, so he pulled his gloves back on, pressed around the wrists to seal them, and kept going.
Zeb’s squad was returning fire now, from cover and prone. He raised his weapon, braced against the fender of the truck, sighted, and squeezed the trigger.
