The heat of the Russian summer was unbearable. It creped up the Kevlar uniforms, trapping itself in the black heavy material. It brought exhaustion to your arms, making your arms realize how heavy the weapon in your hand really was. It clouded the eye shield of the sweltering helmet, not leaving even after you took the thing off.

If I was telling a story of my life, this part would be the exposition; me, in a helicopter, flying over Moscow with three complete strangers, to a weapons corporation in the midst of a terrorist operation, the nationalists armed to the teeth with advanced off-the-assembly-line weapon systems. Every single action ever done in your life leading to this particular point in time, and it can't even be in a plausible situation. 27 years of living all brought to this one moment, and it is something as stupid and backwards assed as this. I guess these things happen; after all, life could be worse. I could have been Earth's only hope for survival fighting off a deadly strain of virus that turns people into vampires (in the most likely of situations).

And I guess it's these moments where you look back on your life, and wonder how the hell you got where you were. For me, it was two things: a doughnut and a man named Neville.

The doughnut that jailed me. I think plenty of people go through their lives without thinking that. Of course, since the son of a ***** gave me six to eight months in prison, I had plenty of time to say it again and again.

Six months before I was flying in a helicopter, I was your average Joe. I worked at a respectable insurance company, I got paid, and life was good. The problem with this particular job was sleep; namely, the fact that I didn't get enough. From nearly nine in the morning to 10 at night, I would have to explain to people that our insurance didn't cover activist damage or bear attacks. While people in most situations would start slamming their client's heads into desks, I had to stay calm. I would deal with these people from sun-up to sundown, then go to bed, thinking about what the next batch of idiots would say the next day. And fortunately, I wouldn't have to wait long; by the time I did all of my work that I brought home, it would be three, and I got to sleep for about five hours.

This cycle made me fairly sick. I would sometimes be mistaken for a ghost floating down the halls, I got so pale at times. I eventually used up seven of eight sick days. What I didn't know is that I only had eight sick days a year; I figured I had a lot more. So, one Friday, I decided to blow off work and sleep, ending my last sick day.

It was only natural that I would get sick a few days later. Laying in bed, sniveling and snorting, I got a pleasant call from my boss, saying that either I show up for work or forfeit my job.

Like a horse kicked in it's rear, I ran out my apartment door, pants half on and shirt buttoned down. I called a cab, but didn't get to far because of rush hour. Paying the driver everything I had in my pocket, I ran as fast as I could to my building.

This is where the doughnut comes into play. Let's establish something; cops like doughnuts, and cops have a lot of power. If you run into a cop, literally, and he drops the pastry that is undoubtedly hanging from his mouth, he may pursue you. If he catches you, he can arrest you under the suspicion that you were running for a reason, even if you're trying to get to work just to not get fired.

I was charged with interfering with an officer on duty. For this, I would face half a year in Moscow City Penitentiary. Every cloud has a silver lining; I'm still trying to find the one around this fume.

It was potato salad day in the cooler, meaning it was a Wednesday. Potatoes in general were strictly served only during the middle of the week.

As per usual, everyone complained about the thickness of the mayonnaise or the taste of the potatoes. It wasn't like we despised the food; it was that after three months in a can, we were so used to eating the crap that it was second nature to carp about it.

This is where Neville fit into the story. Five years prior to my conviction, Neville had joined the SAS. He was a weedy little guy who could only work behind a desk or organizing an infiltration squad. What talent he lacked in physical aspects of the Special Forces he made up with theory. In lame man's terms, he couldn't shoot a rifle, but he could tell you exactly how to shoot. Since this endowment would be wasted in an office, they had him train recruits and penal squads.

When the inmates of Moscow prison met him, he presented himself in a mix as a businessman and a military leader; he carried the briefcase but wore the stripes. He stood out in the mess hall amongst the orange jump suits, clearing his throat and looking nervously down at his feet. It wasn't until the Warden, who decided to eat with us today, stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs. The result was complete silence.

"Hello, my name is Sergeant Patrick Neville," he said in a nasally, dorkish voice. It became immediately clear that Neville was the kid who got kicked around the schoolyard for his lunch money, then kicked around again for the hell of it. As soon as he introduced himself, all the inmates turned back to their food, paying absolutely no attention to the Englishman.

"I have an interesting job opportunity for you all," he continued on. The clacking of plastic silverware against plastic trays drowned his voice out after this, however, and he one again embarrassingly looked down at his shoes. This time, the Warden drew his pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling.

If it was one person we didn't **** around with, it was the Warden. The previous occupant ended up overdosing on sleeping pills because he couldn't stand our behavior. When the new Warden took his place, he made sure everything was spick and span. If this meant he was going to go insane as a result, so be it. This was his general mentality, so in a way, none of us knew why we were surprised he fired his weapon; it would be a thing he'd do, even in the company of an SAS agent.

Neville briefly straightened himself, then went on. "This job opportunity is something you all could benefit from. It deals with the neutralization of terrorists inside the country of Russia. Benefits include traveling, health and dental care, and a ticket out of jail. Anyone interested can sign up with your Superintendent. Good day," he said, then scurried out the double doors.

That deals with why I was in a helicopter. Enough with the exposition. So, it was with these three other operatives that we had to nullify a threat that could destroy part of Moscow.

Wait, we're to far ahead. Back up.

After Neville left, I thought about his offer. There were still 3 months left in my sentence, which seemed like an awfully long time to spend playing cards, reading the same books from the library over and over again, and eating potatoes every Wednesday. So, after mauling it over, I thought of how cool the cops shows were that were constantly on the T.V. Not to mention, it would equal everything out; when I was done being a Spetznaz, people would look at me as a hero, not a convict.

And so, right after a baked potato with melted butter and the magical fairy dust that was bacon bits, I went to the Warden, got one of his pens, then signed my name on the dotted line. My life belonged to the Russian military, for at least 3 months.

I had been filled in the day prior to my transfer; I was going to be assigned to squad Delta; Delta had lost its point man. I was the new point man; now, wasn't I lucky? I got to be a loner during anti-terrorist operations. Hurray me.

If you look up "Point Man" or "on point" in the dictionary, you would find an entry that said something like "You're screwed," or "Being on point is on the top of my to do list, right after inserting flaming needles into my genital." And in a counter-terrorist squad, the Point Man was almost always the first man dead. In all honesty, I wouldn't mind the needles, knowing what I know now.

I asked a secretary who was sitting at the front desk where I was supposed to go. She looked at me for a second, then told me Delta was the fourth floor in an exacerbated voice; the floors correlated with squad names. My bad.

Carrying my military clothes in one hand slung over my shoulder, I stepped into the elevator. This was a problem; I was claustrophobic. Not that it has any true bearing on my story, but it just gives you more insight on me as a person. After all, you have no idea who I am, so I guess a little information about me couldn't hurt.

I wasn't' alone in the elevator; an old, heavy looking guy with a black hat on was leaning against one of the walls, clicking his tongue impatiently of the doors to shut. He appeared to be in distress, fussing about something. He looked up from his worrying, then spotted me.

"You the new point guy?" he asked quickly and aggressively, as if I was trying to offend him.

He had this "You don't **** with me, I'll still call you a retard" kind of air around him. For lack of a better term, he was the embodiment of the word gruff; they type of guy you see coordinating Special Forces type stuff because he had experience. It would have surprised me if he had been in Afghanistan during the 70s.

"From what I've been told, I'm your guy, but-" I started, before he waved off the rest of what I was going to say.

"We've been waiting for your ass for hours now. Thanks." He growled as he repetitively pressed the four button until the doors closed.

"Hey, the ride I got here was late."

"Funny, I didn't ask why you were late," he snarled back. "I don't give a good **** for excuses. You're late, our last point man is just a couple little fragments of skull, and there's been an uprising at Zung Technical Corporation."

I was shocked. There hadn't been the normal signs of a revolt; people usually would have been running about the streets screaming. After all, Zung was one of the top weapon providers for Russia; they had been all over the news. Mainly stuff about "internal instability."

He, obviously reading my mind, said, "Word hasn't gotten out yet. They've made their demands for negotiation, but we haven't made them public yet."

This confused me. "Wait, the public doesn't know yet? Why?"

The metal doors opened, revealing a small hallway. He quickly got out of the elevator and walked down the hall. I followed in his steps.

"The public doesn't need to be freaked just yet. We can still resolve this all discretely, then there would have been no point for the public to lose sleep. They could just go on with their happy little lives."

I thought quickly about what he said. It was true; the last thing we needed were a bunch of protesting hippies outside of Zung main offices, picketing both the Corporation and us.

The old guy walked down the hall, eventually busting into a room where three people were huddled around a table, drinking coffee and chatting quietly. As soon as the old man walked through the threshold, they all went deathly silent, staring straight at him.

We suited up; our job was to assess the situation in Zung and try to neutralize the enemy terrorist threat. If we needed additional back up, Echo squad would be on call. Once landed at the HLZ, we would infiltrate the building and counterbalance the rival presence. Once we penetrated the shell of troops, we would set up a makeshift command post in central offices. Then we would slowly move through the building, killing anyone we saw. With any luck, we would be done before sunrise; the perfect way to end the night and start off the morning.

I think this is about where we began.

It was still hot. But we all knew that, right?

Moscow was cool looking from the sky. It was early in the night, so a few cars were going to apartments and houses. I took off my helmet and wiped the sweat from my hair. The other three were doing their own prework rituals; praying, mouthing songs they knew from heart, playing drums on their knees. I didn't have any ritual, making me stand out even more like an *******.

The intercom crackled alive, and a noisy "over the target" could be heard over the roaring of a propeller and the random blips of a cockpit.

Saying something is hot in the military doesn't mean sexual attractiveness. To say an area is hot means that the area has a high enemy concentration; expect the place to be hot with all the explosives and bullets whizzing around. Hence, hot. To say a landing zone is hot is basically taking "the area is hot" and adding the component that you are skydiving without a parachute into the given locale. To take it one step further, saying a helicopter landing zone is hot is like saying "You are going to be dropped two miles in the air while you are inside a burlap sack, into a place where everyone has a gun, and they all hate you. Go for it, Mr. David Copperfield."

Before the helicopter landed, our pilot bothered saying, "HLZ is hot!"

We took two hits from anti-air rockets. The first just rocked us and the rear propellers a bit, while the second blew up right outside the door. It disabled the minigun, killing the gunner and destroying the barrels. It also knocked one of operatives out of the helicopter.

The heat from the night was nothing now. The blast covered my helmet, blackening my face shield. It crept up my neck, burning my throat. It was impossible to breath; the dead guy had it the easiest.

It was at this moment before my certain death that everything slowed down. The firestorm in our machine stopped being hot. The two other people with me stopped squirming. The fire in my lungs stopped burning, and my mind stopped freezing. I knew what to do.

Jumping out of my seat, doing the most heroic thing of my life, I stood in front of the door and madly fired my weapon. In hindsight, this was probably the dumbest thing I ever did in my life, but I didn't care. I was too up-my-own ass with courage that nothing mattered anymore, other than the capture of Zung. The terrorist's defeat became my all-consuming purpose in life.

I felt bullets impacting my chest, and I felt the tight Kevlar absorbing their blows for me.

"Get out of the chopper!" I remember screaming to my collogues, who seemed to be transfixed on my sudden act of valor to even move.

They both jumped out of the aircraft, then started hammering enemy hard points. I remember jumping out, feeling my ribs crack and groan with my movement, as if they were the one thing in the world disappointed in my gallantry.

We spent ten minutes sprinting around, killing the people we could find. Every kill we got, I heard "Tango down" over my headset, to the point that it became infuriating. Evey step I took, I grew a little bit groggier and more annoyed by the constant buzz in my ear, to the point that I fell lat on my face, unable to get up. O.K., maybe it wasn't the radio. Maybe it was the bullets my Kevlar let through.

We secured the rooftop, then radioed in for backup. At that point, I felt like I had smoked a big fatty; my head was cloudy, I felt numb, and everything started spinning. There was a constant high-pitched sting in my ear, like my eardrums had broken or something. My eyelids started getting heavy, and my breathing became slower and more drawn out.

No, I didn't die. In fact, I got medevac a few minutes later, when Echo squad joined the other two Delta squad members. The one guy who was knocked out of the helicopter wasn't as lucky.

When I woke up a few days later, the doctors told me that since there were such large amounts of adrenaline in my system, my body thrived on, even after I fainted. At first, they thought I had died, from my injuries, but when they checked my pulse, the medics realized that my heartbeat was normalized. It was ironic, they said. Because I had been so selfless, I had saved myself.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me. I had my entrance, but no exit. I came close to my seven ages, but only managed half that. My survival was the winter of my discontent, not in my stars, but because. So, on my bed, away to prison, where I sing like birds in the cage.

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Posted by R.E.Potter 2008-02-17 07:12:19 ,,, This was interesting,,I enjoyed it. + Report this comment

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