Government Issue (standard:action, 3379 words)
Author: Tom Soukup	Added: Feb 18 2003	Views/Reads: 3926/2551	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A gung ho Marine, frustrated by his lack of combat experience, completes the last part of Special Forces training on a solo desert excercise. He is confronted with very unusual circumstances that take his career in a very different direction.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

head. 

"For the next five days, Sergeant, you will go through the last part of
your training, a little junket we like to call desert survival."  The 
Colonel looked the part as well, his fifty-nine years, thirty-eight as 
a Marine, having turned the skin to leather on his face, a face formed 
almost naturally in discipline beneath the crew-trimmed hair that was 
barely longer than Bart's.  "You will be placed in an area of the 
Mojave desert, alone, and with provisions for only one day.  You can 
carry a standard issue field pack and one weapon of your choice.  You 
will be expected to cross the desert in five days, and report to a 
checkpoint on the south edge by no later than eighteen hundred hours on 
the fifth day.  This map," Bull handed a folded piece of paper to Bart, 
"will guide you to the checkpoint.  You've got seventy-two miles to get 
through if you do it the right way." 

Bart stood there motionless throughout the Colonel's speech.  His
six-foot-two-inch angular frame was almost a caricature of the Marine 
Corps, muscled but not overly so, his face chiseled in the handsomeness 
of granite.  He absorbed Bull's orders never flinching, and relished 
them rather than sinking in regret as most other Special Forces 
graduates did of such forced maneuvers. 

"Any questions, Soldier?"  Bull's nostrils flared with the question. 

"No, sir," Bart replied, never moving his eyes. 

"Good.  A helicopter will take you to your starting point.  Good luck,
Sergeant, and we'll see you in about five days."  Colonel Guano paused 
and smiled wryly.  "Give or take." 

Bart snapped his polished boots together sharply, and in the same motion
brought his outstretched fingers to a salute.  He spun on one heel and 
stepped toward the open door. 

"Sergeant," the Colonel said before Bart could leave, "one more thing." 
Bart turned again.  "You've done a spectacular job here.  I must say 
that I think you've proven yourself probably the best trainee we've had 
for Special Forces in recent years.  The Corps has big plans for you, 
son, unusual ones not handed out lightly.  Be proud, Bart.  I assure 
you that all your hard work will pay off.  Now head on out and once 
again, good luck." 

*       *       * 

As the chopper lifted into the sky, Bart looked to the clouds, and
tossed the Colonel's last words over and over in his mind.  The words 
"big plans" and "unusual ones" played across his inward vision, and he 
tried to imagine what might be in store.  The tone was mystical, but 
his confusion was offset by the knowledge that he was about to achieve 
the goal he had worked for, planned for, labored so diligently for 
these past years.  He envisioned command in bloody battles swung 
overwhelmingly in his favor by his cunning and innate ability to lead 
men to victory.  It was like watching a movie, in the flashing colors 
of action, and he was the star, a John Wayne . . . but real. 

"This is it, Sarge," the pilot said as he settled the helicopter into
the billowing sand.  Bart had gotten so lost in his thoughts that he 
had let time escape. 

"Thanks, Lieutenant," he said as he jumped to the parched ground, the
shine of his boots hazing quickly as a film of dust settled over them.  
"See you in a few days." 

The chopper lifted off again, and it took a few disorienting moments for
the air to clear once more.  Bart slung the heavy pack over the 
broadness of his shoulders, checked the map for his position, and 
plunged into the forest of dunes alone. 

The first day's going was strenuous.  There were no marked paths and the
loose sand that covered the desert floor climbed into his boots to make 
each step a tug-of-war with nature.  He managed barely twelve miles by 
late afternoon, the sun stealing the depth of his breaths from him, and 
decided he would set camp to spend some time planning the next day's 
route more carefully.  He found a small clearing nestled among tall 
dunes where he could pitch his tent on the relatively smooth ground yet 
maintain the cover of the landscape as his training had taught. 

Bart set the small tent, camouflaged to match his uniform and the
terrain on which it lay, and spent an hour in the relative coolness of 
it while he arranged his gear in an orderly fashion.  He looked at his 
scuffed and dirty boots, shook his head and smiled before he wiped them 
to a sort of half-shine.  Not perfect, he thought, but plenty for this 
place.  Satisfied that his military precision was aptly displayed even 
though he alone could enjoy it, he left the tent to explore his 
bivouac. 

The clearing stretched for eighty or ninety yards away from his camp and
was surrounded on all sides by soaring dunes that had been sculpted to 
their soft shapes by the whirling winds of the sirocco.  The sun was 
deep in the west now, and the shadows tiptoed slowly across the open 
space, etching pictures in the concentric ridges of sand that closely 
mimicked those of his dress.  He walked the perimeter of his campsite, 
checking all views and making mental notes for possible escape should 
it be necessary.  Of course he knew no such circumstances were likely 
to develop here, but he wanted to keep his senses keen and sharpen them 
further to the tasks he was being promised.  "Big plans" the Colonel 
had said, and Bart wanted to be prepared for them, whatever they might 
be. 

As he approached the far side of the clearing, he caught some slight
movement in the corner of his eye.  He turned to the place and saw 
nothing but the approaching night.  He walked slowly in that direction, 
carefully and silently.  And with a suddenness of surprise, he was hit 
hard across the face, his nose stinging from the blow.  He staggered 
back and took a pose of defense . . . but nothing moved.  He stepped 
cautiously forward again, inching his way toward the darkness.  He was 
hit again, more gently this time.  Or did he hit something?  His mind 
tossed in confusion, and he struggled to maintain his military 
coolness, to observe and to assess.  He reached forward into the empty 
space before him and his hand met a wall.  But the wall wasn't there, 
or at least he couldn't see it.  And yet it was there, transparent, 
perfectly clear but there nonetheless.  A wall of glass. 

Bart touched it hesitantly, felt the cool smoothness of it, and he ran
his hand slowly across its perfect surface.  It extended well above his 
head and to the ground.  There was not a nick in it, not a scratch, and 
as he moved along its length he saw his reflection faintly mirrored 
back in the fading hues of dusk.  He touched it and moved, touched 
again and moved further but found no end.  From a distance he might 
have appeared as some street mime, the classic bit of the glass box 
playing not through trickery here but in a reality that was grasping 
Bart with such stark realism.  His motions became more panicked, his 
hands slapping the endless surface, his body bobbing up and down to 
find the top, the bottom, some edge.  But there was none, and in the 
end he found that the wall of glass was continuous, extending around 
the clearing, around his camp and joining itself as some sort of 
confining bottle.  No beginning and no end. 

And Bart was trapped inside.  It hadn't been there before, he told
himself, knowing that but two hours earlier he had walked into this 
clearing unobstructed, no such barrier preventing him.  But it's here 
now.  It's here and it's everywhere and there are no openings.  He felt 
the claws of fear take hold of his bowels, the fingers of 
claustrophobia caress the back of his neck and hold him powerless.  
Sweat covered his tense body lightly, and his eyes darted from where he 
stood to the reaches of the clearing, studying every detail, searching 
for some way out or worse, something that might be with him . . . 
inside. 

"I'll break it," he said, and he ran to find something heavy in his
backpack, something to smash that wall of glass and allow his escape, 
allow him to breathe other than the confining air of this place.  He 
found his shovel, folded neatly in the bag, and hurried back to the 
barrier.  Grabbing the handle at its very end for the leverage of a 
crashing blow, he struck the shiny glass with all the might, all the 
power he could find in the tight coils of muscle that were his arms.  
But it bounced from the surface, the vibration tearing the shovel from 
his throbbing hands.  And the wall stood unbroken.  The monolithic 
smoothness wasn't so much as scratched.  He struck again and again but 
the strength of the wall would not be breached.  It stood untouched, 
defiant to the human weakness of Bart Winston. 

"I'll dig under it," Bart said, settling his uncharacteristic
nervousness as he unfolded the spade end of the tool.  The ground was 
hard but his fear drove the shovel almost effortlessly into the soil.  
Deeper he dug but the glass dove deeper still.  Another three feet and 
the glass was persistent, its edge yet hidden beneath the clay.  Two 
feet further but the relentless wall went more.  At last, the fatigue 
from such physical and mental labor had overcome Bart, and he sat at 
the edge of the seven-foot hole, stained by moisture of clammy 
perspiration, breathing heavily and bathed in the darkness that had 
crept over him at the final setting of the sun. 

Wrestling inwardly with panic and exhaustion, he gave in to his aching
muscles and crawled off to the lonely quiet of his tent to regain 
strength and continue at morning's light.  Sleep came slowly but it 
came. 

*       *       * 

Bart awoke at sunrise, the hazy light filtering in through the thin
fabric of the tent.  His muscles ached, and his nose throbbed where he 
had first hit the strange wall the night before.  And now he heard the 
silence, an unusual quiet foreign even to this desolate place.  There 
were no scuffling sounds of lizards, no rustle of wind across the folds 
of sand.  It was a reminder to Bart that the wall sheltered him from 
all of that, held prisoner in its grasp. 

He stepped out into the morning light and stretched himself awake.  He
was hungry and it was only now that he realized he had not eaten since 
early yesterday.  He could see the freshly dug hole, the start of his 
tunnel to freedom, but it could wait until he had made some breakfast, 
filled the emptiness that rumbled in his stomach.  Bart had only 
provisions for one day, all that he was permitted to carry with him, 
and in his glass walled prison it was unlikely that he could find the 
food necessary to hold him beyond that.  I'll have to ration, he 
thought, and he parceled out the food he was issued, eating only what 
was necessary to regain his strength for now, and planning the rest to 
hold him until the tunnel was finished. 

His meal complete, Bart picked up the small shovel and walked to the
hole he had begun the night before.  My mind is clear now, he told 
himself, and I can tackle this job rationally.  His pace across the 
clearing was brisk, and he could now see clearly the progress he had 
made on the tunnel. 

But before he reached the hole, he slammed hard into the wall, so hard
that he was thrown to the ground.  And yet he could see the hole 
beyond.  The wall had moved, and the tunnel lay on the far side, a good 
twenty feet past the glass.  Panic filled Bart once more. 

He regained his feet and placed his back against the invisible surface. 
With an even stride, he paced the distance across the clearing, 
measuring from wall to wall.  He moved slowly, arms waving in front of 
him as if in the pitch of night, until he touched the glass opposite 
where he began.  Seventy-eight paces, he said to himself, and he turned 
to pace again, to double check. 

"Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy," he counted aloud, but before he
could step to seventy-one, he struck the wall again.  How could I be 
that far off, he wondered, and the confusion drove him to still another 
count. 

"Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five," and Bart hit the wall again.  "It
can't be.  That's impossible," and he counted still again. 

"Twenty-two, twenty-three," and the wall stood ever closer.  "It's
moving," Bart said in a whisper only to himself, and it was in that 
same instant that he saw his tent and his precious provisions on the 
outside of the wall, the invisible barrier holding him back from his 
food, his water, his shelter . . . and the shovel. 

He wrung his hands pacing in the closeness that continued to strangle
him, collapsing further still.  Fifteen paces, then nine, seven, four, 
and it came.  Bart could stand in its center now, and with outstretched 
arms he could feel the smooth wall all around him with his fingertips.  
And he could feel it move, inch-by-inch, to his palms and further until 
his shoulders were touched by the pressure of the wall. 

It was on him, around him and his mind told him in screams of panic that
there was no way out, that the wall would crush him, crumble his bones 
like brittle kindling.  He was trapped.  There would be no "big plans" 
as the Colonel had promised.  There could be no plans at all.  No plans 
but the death that was sure to come.  Bart stood quietly, accepting his 
fate for there was nothing else he could do.  He stood at military 
attention to await the last crushing movement. 

And the wall moved steadily closer, wrapping itself tightly against the
camouflage of his uniform, pushing on the boots that still shined dimly 
beneath the dust, forming to the beret tipped to the side and forward 
in respect for the Corps it represented.  And Bart's eyes cast their 
stare forward, unwavering to meet their destiny.  He stood in the 
center of the small clearing, the desert the only witness to his last 
moments. 

*       *       * 

"Please, Mom.  Pleeeease let me have it," the carrot-topped child
pleaded with his mother.  He pointed to the rack on the cluttered wall 
of the toy store. 

"You've got enough of those," his mother said but the boy would not be
turned away so easily. 

"But Mom, it's a new one.  I don't have this one and he's really neat. 
Can I have him, please?"  The child looked up to his mother with the 
expression that only five year olds can successfully produce. 

"Oh I suppose," she said, and she slid the package from the metal rack. 
"I guess this is your lucky day, Johnny.  This is the only one like 
it." 

Johnny held the six-inch action figure in his hands.  "GI Joe" it said
colorfully on the cardboard.  "Newest figure ... Sergeant Bart, Special 
Forces" and the plastic wrap held the figure tightly against the 
cardboard.  The camouflage fatigues were perfect, bloused above the 
shiny black boots.  A tiny beret was positioned on its head, and the 
steely blue of its eyes stared blankly forward. 

"Wow.  He's really neat.  Thanks, Mom.  I've got big plans for this
guy." 


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