Exploring a Guerrilla

http://maciejkuciara.blogspot.com/2011/08/weekend-fun-continued.html

Varsha was a short brown woman with long black hair and bit bigger ass than any of us could handle if we’d ever been allowed to handle it at all. When she first came to us on a rainy day she told Yolo she was married, she told Chit she was a widow, and she told Mattie she was gay. Me? Well me…me she told to fuck the hell off. We had no trouble believing all three stories were true, and I just pretended she was my little sister—until that got creepy.

###

Chit counted ammo in the shade of a travelers’ tent we erected on a sand bar. The awkward height and angle of the poles presented the lumpy aspect of a large boulder, but against the white gravel and sand near the river it must have looked like a target because in ten minutes Chit would be hurrying to rid himself of his current ballistic inventory in a rapid orderly fashion.

“See anything?”

Varsha swiveled to eye Chit in the tent; she left her arms akimbo and her feet in place.

“See anything?”

She swiveled back continuing to survey downriver. “No.”

Varsha’s denim leopard-patterned cargo-capris were tucked into a pair of laced on sune-ate. Those shin guards were so big for her they ran from her ankles up past her knees.

Gotta stop here.

225 words on day 847

Engineer Coffee’s Plans Revealed, Nearly

http://1000days.douglasblaine.com/20101021/on-the-life-of-engineer-coffee/

For more of my Ian McQue inspired writings check out the ‘terminus‘ tag.

“He did it. You said he’d do it. And he did it,” Sriram tossed his cap and coat onto the work table near the entrance to the lab. Both garments slumped to the floor like a dead body. He cursed in Hindi then put them back in the same spot on the table. They slid to the floor again. Sri kicked the bundle up under the work table as far back as his anger could get it. “Mador chod!”

Coffee closed the valves on the oxy-acetylene torch he used and set the tool down. He sloughed off his glove and reached under his mask to rub his eyes while Sriram stood there watching. Coffee cocked back the visor.

“Aren’t you pissed?”

“Actually I’m excited,” Coffee said. “Moving the shop will be good for all of us.”

“But he hung you out. If this fails it’s all on you…”

“And if it succeeds it’s all on him…”

“Yes! Yes. That’s what I’ve been saying.” Sri made a gesture with his hand and arm like he wanted to put his brain in Coffee’s skull.

The slender body of Ronnie James Dio crashed into the door frame. His shaven head clunked into the jam as he almost over shot the entrance. “We’re fucking moving the shop? We’re fucking moving the fucking shop?”

“Calm down, kid,” Sri said.

“You calm down, Sri.” Ronnie rubbed his scalp and looked for blood on his fingers. “Is it true Mr. Coffee. Are we moving the shop? Did you tell the Admiral we had to move the shop?”

300 words on day 607

On the Life of Engineer Coffee

http://mcqueconcept.blogspot.com/2010/09/on-tow.html and some of this http://mcqueconcept.blogspot.com/2010/10/last-airborne.html

For more of my Ian McQue inspired writings check out the ‘terminus‘ tag.

“I’ll use your name. Prepared for that?”

Coffee swallowed and asked, “You’d do that to me wouldn’t you?”

“If it’s as necessary as you say, I’d be doing it for you.”

Coffee vented air through his open mouth like a laugh or a fuck you or a crying of uncle. “The sure way or the slow way, huh?”

Admiral Tsien remained still and quiet at his desk. One hand lay on the surface holding down a manila folder marked [something cryptic but pertinent] the other propped up his head as he barely leaned to the side in a leather swivel chair.

Through the many-paned window behind Tsien and his chair, Coffee watched a tug pulling a Type: Recon to altitude. The Lebbeus—it was called—glided steadily right to left, heading north. Tsien licked his lips to speak, but first popped his fingertips from his forehead extending them skyward to mark the culmination of his thoughts. “Oorah.”

Coffee tugged at the soul patch in his goatee. “Oorah,” he said quietly. He then repeated the shape of the word soundlessly several times while still tugging the hair below his lip. Coffee shot up from his own chair and slapped the Admiral’s desk with both hands.

Tsien didn’t flinch.

Coffee leaned across the depth of the steel desk, locked eyes with a man no longer his friend, said, “Do it, Wu. It’s my life either way,” and then left the room.

http://1000days.douglasblaine.com/20101202/engineer-coffees-plans-revealed-nearly/

247 words on day 566

300 Meters Backline

Day 437

Expert training dulled Bradford’s instinctual reaction to wheel like a barracuda at flashing metal, but he did round the mains forward to bring the Jack Rabbit to a contemplative hover after 300 meters. In the first two days following their initial incursion patrols had picked up a handful of refugees—even less combatants. Every effort since had been bust.

Considering all the possible options Bradford realized he’d have to investigate on the ground. “Crap.”

“[Bradford’s call sign to ‘base’]”

“[This is ‘base’, Continue]”

“See my vector?” Bradford gave the operator time to swig some coffee to wash down the donut he’d heard in her voice. “Body on the ground 300 meters backline. Port. Returning to investigate on foot.” Bradford waited while the operator came to the same conclusion why he was exiting the aircraft personally.

“Understood. Human?” Bradford thought a moment.

“80% affirmative.”

OK thats all I could write before I got totally sucked in figuring out the radio chatter.

Bradford’s Instinctual Reaction

It feels like Friday. I think I even told someone it was Friday. I hope that doesn’t screw up their day.

In 435 days of writing 1000 Days I’ve never come up with the idea that I might prepare for some writing the day before. I’ve always thought of this endeavor as a seat-of-the-pants sort of thing. I hit the blank page running. Last night though I did. I thought about what I wrote yesterday and I devised a bit of a plan. Not an elaborate plan. Not even a well organized plan. Maybe not a plan.

I did think about what I’d written though. I tried to imagine what might happen next. Here’s what I got…

(it’s not neccessarily a continuation)

A mostly blue Richardson-Blount NF32 “Jack Rabbit” skimmed the morning plains as the sun pinked the horizon from nautical to civil twilight. At ten meters off the deck it was closer to wrecking with the earth than it measured nose to tail. The pilot, Captain Charles “Not Chuck” Bradford, skimmed landmarks and hazards outside the cockpit with his thoughts. He ticked them off like a chef might run down an endless ingredient list: tree, rise, fall, tree, pond, copse, rocks, creek… Bradford’s Drivers’ Ed teacher—a coach probably—mentioned the technique in a classroom lesson. Explicitly naming objects gave them substance in your thoughts in a way that merely perceiving them with your eyes did not. Bradford reacted to information, data, not to ideas.

Tree, tree, arrojo, dead body, rise…

“What!”

Expert training dulled Bradford’s instinctual reaction to wheel like a barracuda at flashing metal, but he did round the mains forward to bring the Jack Rabbit to a contemplative hover after 300 meters. Patrols had busted for weeks since the initial incursion. In the first two days they rounded up a handfull of refugees—less combatants—and nothing since.

Day 436

The Richardson-Blount NF32 “Jack Rabbit”

It’s nice to know once I drag myself away from the distractions of email and the Internet and begin writing that there’s a dog that wants out, a cat that wants in, and a phone to ring on the other side of the house.

I’m plucking a line from yesterday’s one-minute drill for some expansion. The line didnt capture as much as I thoink may have been in my head as I blurted it out. With luck I’ll be able to attenuate the image into something something:

“Bradford skimmed the landmarks outside the cockpit. He’d picked up the habit early. Stare straight ahead into the coming fight with your eyes, but skim with your mind the…”

A mostly blue Richardson-Blount NF32 “Jack Rabbit” skimmed the morning plains as the sun pinked the horizon from nautical to civil twilight. At ten meters off the deck it was closer to wrecking with the earth than it measured nose to tail. The pilot, Captain Charles “Not Chuck” Bradford, skimmed landmarks and hazards outside the cockpit with his thoughts. He ticked them off like a chef might run down an endless ingredient list: tree, rise, fall, tree, pond, copse, rocks, creek… Bradford’s Drivers’ Ed teacher—a coach probably—mentioned the technique in a classroom lesson. Explicitly naming objects gave them substance in your thoughts in a way that merely perceiving them with your eyes did not. Bradford reacted to information, data, not to ideas.

Day 435

Fanning the Embers

Tweaked yesterday’s writing till I hit the 9 o’clock mark.  Still not finished.

Morning wind kept the smoke from their abandonned campfires low to the ground.  Generations ago we hunters may have worried about upwinding prey or having been detected before arrival, not so now.  Thermals peppered my semlam one signature for each for the small trees, pairs for the larger trunks.

I brushed away the semlam’s meta regarding radial poz-prox and again the mean trunk diameters for both groups.  Those data aid targeting but they don’t assist me…much.  Since position and proximity calculations are easy and relevant to our suits’ general elimination directive they complete and appear first.  Once those two lamina cleared, bio meta faded in.  These I could use.  These better describe the character and readiness of the encountered aboriginals.  Each enco’s heart rate percolated onto the semlam and hovered above their thermals.

“Foster?”

:Where’s our cake?: crawled across the bottom of my semlam.

Moore, Leathers, and Hisey’s me2s chased off Foster’s question.  Heart rates weren’t high enough on average to indicate fear as much as readiness.  We’d caught the encos off guard, no question of that, so it couldn’t be an ambush.  Surprised or not, these enco’s were more or less waiting on us.

“Place your bets.”  Four win-place-show thermal rankings appeared on my semlam.  As ‘gram leader—having first access to our computer’s results—I abstained.  When I released the meta I knew Leathers had a shit-eating grin and Moore was pissed.  Moore contributed most of the logic used to determine the likely ranking of encountered aboriginals—who to shoot first and who to ask questions of afterward.

Day 375