Not. Clue. One.

Then I murmured. "That will be all, Fredrics."

With an obviously affected Brit accent and a slight, stiff bow, he replied "Very good, Mister Braddock,"

I sussed he'd been watching old movies or BBC™ reruns portraying English™ butlers?

My majordomo stepped back and around the chair of the braggart. Lover Boy scowled at me in indignation as I took that first, satisfying sip.

How dare a cuckold wimp insult his self-evident, majestic Alpha-Bull status, by failing to serve Him that drink!

Then, like a sun-beam through a sudden rift in a cloudy sky, it dawns on him how seriously he has misjudged our confrontation. Guess he's not quite as stupid as his bragging would indicate?

Starting to rise, his princely head swiveling around. As Fredrics triggered the Taser™ concealed under the bar-towel covering his hand, to the back of donjuan's neck.

My indispensable minion cuffed the convulsing manly ape hand to foot. While the two of us shared a conspiratorial laugh when our victim pissed himself!

This 'Alpha' must be one of those perpetually adolescent goofs who confuses pornographic stories with reality. He probably sat there in his mother's basement, jacking off all over himself as he drooled over those infantile hollywooded porn fantasies on his computer. Harlequin Romance™ novels for perpetually petulant adolescent males!

On patrols, he'd be the swaggering newbie, wannabe hero, you assign to point. Getting his sorry ass killed as a forewarning, could save the lives of the rest of the guys in your unit.

Whom you have actually come to care about. Or perhaps, consider them reliable enough to cover your ass?

The virgin replacements I never even bothered to memorize their names. I can't say as I even remember their faces now? Come to think of it, virgin is a good description of their abbreviated lifespans. They are the hymen that gets torn once and is gone forever.

Clearly 'Master Bates' here was ignorant of the real relationship between my wife and my self, and oh yeah, my good ol'buddy Fredrics.

***********

{early 2004}

Since I am engaged in attempting to write a reasonably honest accounting of the early decades of my life, here is where I must confess. Honestly? It was an accident that I had stumbled across Fredrics and somehow, clumsily managed to rescue him from Taliban captivity.

His good luck, I figured I needed to take him along with me. Fully intending, if it had become necessary, to use him as an expendable diversion for making good my own escape.

How's that hoary old joke go, "I do not have to run faster then the zombies. I just have to be willing to trip you as we run."

I think the directions I had been given to the local dope-lord's compound were mistranslated. We were going to work out the logistics with swapping four mislaid pallets of mortar shells for eight kilograms of prime hashish.

A pair of AFReserve luey's, whom I had caught on video smoking dope and buggering one another, would handle getting the hash back to Rhein-Main Air Base, Frankfurt am Main Deutschland. To be turned over to a reasonably trustworthy acquaintance.

An Estonian gangster residing in the Erregerland. With whom I had previously completed a couple of mutually profitable deals during my AFOIS days stationed in Frankfurt. Eventually, to add another substantial deposit into my secret account at the Bank of Farben, Flick, Ubermann, Christiansin & Krupp™ of Liechtenstein™.

Fredrics still believes that I got him out through my courageous efforts. Actually, I was trying to drag him out the door behind me, that I could use him as a human shield while we were running away.

He was all battered like KFC™ chicken. Stumbling behind me, babbling incoherently, begging Father Peter too stop butt fucking him? Well, that's what it sounded like to me! I wasn't really paying close attention to his ramblings about them there 'good old days'.

With my other hand carrying my SMG pointing the way. Using the barrel to shove the shack door open. Whereupon I tripped over the sill! Accidentally squeezing off the trigger, set for full auto. And I had the safety off.

Yeah! I know! Every dumb rookie mistake possible. Don't bother writing to complain. Honestly? I was scared out of my fucking mind! (I think I may have pissed a little, down into my boots... Do I have to give back my medal?)

Fortunate for both of us, that wild spray of bullets from my SMG somehow triggered off a couple of wanna-be suicide bombers in the middle of the mob of natives returning from the Mosque.

Leaving none of the towel-heads in any condition to stop our hasty bugout. I wonder if they still qualified for the full 72 Virgins™?

I never did bother explaining to Fredrics (or anyone else) the truthful circumstances of what had led me to that farmhouse that day. My half-ass fiction about following up on an anonymous informer's tip was greedily accepted by the PR officers.

The combat officers of the Incident Review Board appeared skeptical about my cock 'n bull story. 'That an anonymous informer had told me that the Taliban™ were going to use their prisoner, Fredrics, as a human shield to get a couple of suicide bombers close to the Base front-gate."

Supposedly it was going to happen in a few minutes, there was no time for me to call for a backup team. Impulsively, I charged ahead to rescue Fredrics myself.

Since my wild shooting had fortuitously set off a explosion or two of shrapnel, maybe my fiction was reasonably, conveniently, accidentally factual?

Any way you want to cut it, the Board members skepticism was overruled by the most senior Officer, Major General Sheffield. He was Pentagon™ brass visiting green zones to qualify for another combat service badge. I received a brevet promotion and a medal from them. Yeah me!

After the IRB heard final testimony. One of the General's aides took me aside and 'invited' me to visit with our distinguished perambulating Brass, in the parlor of the VIP quarters that evening.

It was just the two of us, I"m guessing the General thought a little privacy would help put me at ease. You know, now think of it? He was right. It did help ease the stress I was feeling from the mordant attitudes of some of the officers sitting on the Review Board.

Over a fierily smooth, 8 year old Granddad's Old Privy Bourbon™, Sheffield reassured me that the Board's final report will be favorable to me and I would do well out of it.

He knew from my personnel file that we were from the same State and he asked me about my family and my plans for the future.

I explained about losing my parents. Being raised by my Grand-Mothers and then my Step-Mother Lucinda. How I lost Lucy at the end of my second year in College. Then, my suspicions about how I had been cheated out of my inheritance by crooked lawyers and a corrupt judge.

Sheffield looked sympathetic as I told him my sad story. There was a thoughtful expression on his face when I named the lawyers and the judge involved. I would discover a couple of years later that the men I had named were supporters of Sheffield's political opponents. When he had retired from the USAF and returned to our Home State to run for Governor.

It may have been then, that he realized that I might be of some use to his ambitions. Of course he never came right out at our tete-a-tete and revealed his still undeveloped plans for me. However, by time I left, I had a strong feeling of personal interest from him. That he intended to keep an eye on my career.

I was awarded an Air Force Achievement Medal and received Captain's bars (brevet) for my single-handed 'heroic' rescue of Fredrics. Preventing at least one suicide bombing and for killing at least a dozen suspected Taliban™ and their partisans.

Sheffield's friends in Congress™ would confirm my new rank by pulling their own rank on DOPeMA budgetary requests. So I would get to keep my shiny railroad tracks when I left the Afghan Campaign™ war-zone.

It was reported by Allied Intelligence Assets there was the possibility, that among the casualties, had been the Senior Mawlā of Taliban™ missionary operations in that District and several of his subordinates. Since that was not corroborated, I did not receive the rewards offered for their body parts. Probably someone in Kabul wound up pocketing those bounties.

I overheard one of the other USAF officers grumbling at my sudden promotion. So, what was I suppose to do? Refuse the recognition for my meritorious service? Do I look stupid?

Try this viewpoint. No matter how elaborate the precautions pious moralists try to build into a system. Sooner or later, some all too clever asshole, will figure out how to game that system. You're just deluding yourself if you believe differently.

I wasn't the one who'd back-doored the promotion system. I'd had no expectations nor had I asked for this promotion. That I inadvertently wound up benefiting from a corrupt system, how does any blame come down on me?

Are we all suppose to stick our heads in the sand and pretend that political influence will not help a commissioned officer's career path?

Or hinder it?

How many careers do you know of, that were blighted for doing their duty with honor?

Or, for committing the institutional sin of speaking forthright and honestly?

***********

***********

Paddling up the Blackwater ™, all the way

to the Banks of the FFUC&K™of L™

***********

Two weeks better later then never, me and the dope-lord concluded our trade. This time I made damn sure I had his Blackwater™ controller along. To guide me to the bunker-cave the Pashtun Chieftain was using as his command center.

What surprised me was how effusively happy the warlord greeted me when we finally met.

The Blackwater™ controller translating between us, told me how pleased the grizzled old raghead was that I had killed his life-long personal enemy and for disrupting the Taliban™ operations in what he considers as his territory.

Clarification followed; that their clans had been feuding for centuries.

Hey, whatever I can do to support our 'loyal' allies.

I groused that I would never receive the official bounties offered for the wanted men. In a burst of giddy generosity, the drug-lord threw in a couple of extra kilograms of hashish to make up for my aggrievedment.

Uhh, sure thing. Thanks, Sparky!

Then the guards brought out some girls for us to orgy with. Our generous host invited us to join him in taking the girls virginities.

The Blackwater™ Operative, helping me complete the swap of mortar shells for hash. Made it crystal clear that I could not refuse to participate in this mass rape. The Pashtun Chieftain would take my refusal as a personal insult.

Swallowing my thanks-but-no-thanks. Swiftly reviewing my options as I had no intention of taking off my boots. If this went south on me, I wasn't about to handicap my running!

A quick look along the line of sullen-faced girls convinced me that it really didn't matter which I chose. Frankly, they all looked alike to me. Maybe one had more of a slant to her eyes, Another more swarthy. A third girl taller, a fourth, stockier. I just reached out and grabbed the nearest arm of the nearest victim to me.

A guard, with a big shit-eating grin on his face. (That I just wanted to smash in!) Directed me to a side-tunnel with a line of grubby mattresses.

I dragged my chosen maiden behind me, then shoved her down onto one of the mattresses.

Her hair fell over her face as she laid sprawled out. The thin shift, that was all she was wearing, fell open above her boney knees.

Standing over her, trying to figure out the minimalist method of getting this over with. I just unzipped, I didn't bother undressing. Working my cock out out of the fly in my shorts and pants.

Still standing, I started masturbating. Ignoring her glaring hate at me, while silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She made no effort to put her legs together or pull down the shift.

Hearing noises close by, I looked over and saw my Blackwater™ pal had his victim rolled over, her sobbing face pressed into the mattress, with her bare ass up in the air. As he slapped his dick against her butt.

He looked back at me and with a wary glance around us as too who might be listening, whispered an admission "I don't wanta remember their faces. They give me bad dreams."

I guess I have a more convenient sub-conscious than Mister Big-Time-Mercenary-Soldier-of-Fortune™ there.

You know those guys, all to well. You've been to their funerals. Who brood over the long list of all the bad-life-choices they had ever made. They'll eventually wind up swallowing a gun. Just a matter of specifically when they finally pull the trigger on themselves.

I shrugged and turned back to the girl laying before me. My cock was finally hard enough to slip a Trojan™ over it.

Yeah, I'm an American Officer and a Gentleman. The U.S.ofA™. Congress™ says so and they're never wrong... Right?!?

Looking between the girl's hairy legs I could see she was not at all excited at the glorious prospect of being ecstatically deflowered by the handsome Feringhee™ prince before her.

Fortuitously, I remembered that I had a little tube of gun-oil in one of my BDU side pockets. Crouching down, a quick squirt to her labia before rubbing my condomed cock along her pussy lips to spread it along and into her vulva.

Again with your whining! Yah, I know that gun-oil is not recommended for internal consumption. And will probably degrade the efficacy of my condom.

So fucking what? Care Not I!

I just wanted to get this bad scene over with, toot sweet! Without embarrassing myself. And get the hell out of Dodge East, with my skin intact and my bank account fatten.

I think I heard a snicker or two echoing around the tunnel. I must of looked ridiculous in full camo and boots as I pressed down on the girl and worked my erection into her passive vagina.

A momentary resistance, a sharp intake of breath as the pain rictused across her face. Then I was in and starting to work my hips back and forth at a steady pace.

Her heavy breathing was the only sound she ever made. The tears continued to flow from her despairing eyes. I shut my own eyes so I could concentrate on getting myself off.

Finally, I groan as an almost painfully spastic, short-order orgasm filled the condom. No more pleasure for me than for her. Balancing on my knees and one hand, my other hand reached down and carefully held the condom in place as I pulled out.

Up on my knees, from another uniform pocket, I got out a couple of large wet-wipes. I made sure to wipe any fluids and blood on the front of my pants that splattered on me. Then I gave her a perfunctory swipe of her abused labia and thighs.

Before using the stained cloth to pull off the condom. Finally tucking myself in and zippering back-up with a feeling of blessed relief to be done with this lousy chore.

The wet-wipes holding the condom, I nonchalantly tossed into a nearby pile of trash. Deliberately that the pink stains were visible. The watching guard smiled and winked at me with a thumbs-up.

I gave him a weak grin and nod of acknowledgement as I walked back into the main cave. Leaving the girl behind... Her suffering body curled up around her broken spirit. Noisily sobbing at what she had endured and the bleak, hopeless future that laid before her.

I went over to where the Blackhawker™ was sitting against the far wall, taking a pull from a bottle of Hindoo Scotch™. I slid down the wall to join him sprawled on the cave floor.

Without a word. Without looking at me. He handed me the bottle. I took a gulp and managed to swallow without gagging too loudly. Not quite as vile as White Lightning™ or Jailhouse Raisin Hootch™ but definitely a taste acquired only during the total unavailability of decent liquor.

Whiling away the time, waiting for the Boss Raghead to finish off his second, or maybe third victim. I sotto-voiced "Where'd he get these girls from. Did their families sell them?"

With a shamed red-face, the Blackwater™ op muttering admitted that "The girls had been taken wjen their families are anonymously accused of being possible Taliban™ sympathizers. Mostly from Tajik, Urdu or Uzbek families who had refused to cooperate with the drug trade."

He went on to imply the obstreperous families were being punished for the heinous crime to those special interests, supplying Americans™ and other Western Christian Nations™ with drugs and slave prostitutes.

He commented about how these were the more attractive hostages. Afterwards they would be sold into the Saudi™ run global sex slave trade protected by the Blackwater™ operation.

Big profits all around. But it takes a lot of Saudi™ capital to build up that kind of world-class commercial market.

Me? I'm happy with my little bite of the pie, factoring hash.

The less attractive girls were turned over to the drug ops officers. Then shared with the fighting men. Eventually, those well used women would be shipped off and sold to brothels in Pakistan or India.

The Boss Prick came swaggering back to us. Loudly boasting of his virility to the raucous cheers of his men and their laughter as he disparaged us weak foreigners. Only able to fuck a girl apiece.

Cowards we were, we both heartedly joined in the applause of His Majesty's virile masculinity.

At last, I could make the excuse that I had to report back to the Base and double-check that the pallets of mortar-shells were ready for his men to pick-up.

The following week my smoking hot merchandise was winging it's way to Germland. A fortnight or thrice after, an extra generous deposit went into my secret account at the Bank of Farben, Flick, Ubermann, Christiansin & Krupp™ of Liechtenstein™.

Smiley faces all around, everybody!

Com'on, fake it till you make it!

***********

Sing It Out!

"... I'd Like To Buy The World A Coke™..."

***********

Even a Brevet Captaincy should be commanding a full company, especially considering the shortage of available, experienced Line officers.

However, I had been offered a choice. I could take on a company of newbies. Most lacking any Afghan experience... The poor dumb saps. I would be responsible for making the effort to try to get them trained up before they get themselves killed off. Good luck on that. Now pull the other one!

Or, I could have a reinforced platoon of combat veterans. Assembled from those unfortunates still owing time in-country. Left behind from redundant units rotating out of the combat zone.

Having a healthy consideration for my own survival. I, too smartly for my own good, chose the smaller but more capable unit to command. It took all my hard-learned self-control to tamp down my giddy exaltation at having the opportunity to increase my life expectancy.

Gullible me! I had failed to realize that my small but experienced unit would be used in dangerous situations. Slotted in as a quick reaction force whenever larger units were not immediately available.

***********

{mid 2003}

A couple of months later, my reinforced platoon was assigned to guard a new airfield that was still under construction. In the middle of farmland claimed by a tribe, historically, notoriously, hostile to every attempt at establishing a central government presence or foreign intervention.