Thread: Dillards' War
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Old 11-20-2012, 12:06 AM
SPEMack618 SPEMack618 is offline
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Join Date: Jun 2010
Location: Georgia
Posts: 742

Chapter One

Center for Disease Control, Atlanta, Georgia. Two years later.
Assistant to the Deputy Director, Weaponized Infections Department, CDC, Karen Dillard stood just outside of “her” building on the CDC campus in Atlanta, the warm Georgia sun beating down on her. Karen having always had dark brown hair; secretly hoped the sun would lighten her hair. She was waiting on the approaching green golf cart, carrying two burly security guards, that was driving over the from the High Security BSL-4 laboratory on the other side of the complex. A possible new variation of the Sudan string of Ebola, as found by an Army surgeon working in a refugee camp in Chad had finally arrived, after first going to Fort Detrick, the Army’s chemical warfare facility. USAMRID hadn’t been able to do much of anything with it, so CDC got the call, Karen specifically, having specialized in virology during most of her lab work. She signed for the bio-hazard box electronically. When she smiled at the security guard she was reminded of her brother. The man was short and stocky, with a high and tight hair cut, carrying a scary looking black rifle. As he handed the electronic signature reader to Karen, she noticed a “RANGER” tattoo under his shirt sleeve. Karen vaguely remembered an email from her mother discussing how Jim had earned his Ranger tab and what an accomplishment that was. Karen, however, had been knee-deep in graduate work and hadn’t been able to call. As the security guy walked the shipping container to her lab, Karen paused for a minute and called her little brother’s apartment just outside of Fort Bragg and left him a voicemail.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Later that day.

Captain Jim Dillard, Infantry, United States Army, trudged into his small apartment. Wearily, he looked at his answering machine and took note of the blinking light signifying messages. Dillard first walked to the small kitchen and retrieved a PBR from the refrigerator and then pressed play. One message was from his team sergeant, dating from day he had left for the just completed exercise, reminding him to report to the team room at 0530, the message being left about 15 minutes before the youngish infantry officer would have been late. The other was from his sister, and upon hearing her voice at the start of the recording, Dillard trudged off to the shower, more intent on washing off the grit and grime of the last three day field problem than listening to his sister. Being somewhat cynical, Dillard thought to himself that she was probably calling to tell him that she was either now the new Deputy Director of whatever department it was that she worked at in the CDC, or, that she had indeed gotten engaged. Promotions and possible engagement were something very far removed from the young Delta commando. Sulking into his easy chair after his shower, Dillard proceeded to drink another eight beers. Beer seemed to go down easily lately, and it seemed to dull the inner aches and pains inside. Oh sure, the Air Force PJ had sewn him up right good, not even giving him the honor of a visible scar, but deep inside, he still hurt, and hurt bad. The official reprimand from the Colonel hadn’t helped, nor had being yanked back to Bragg to serve as an evaluator for the training pipeline. He was no more than a glorified field instructor, doing the same thing he had done at ROTC camp the summer before his senior year, except now, instead of actively instructing novices, he was merely herding about professionals and making notes on his RainRiter pad. Another PBR seemed to propel him back to the Operations Shack back at FOB Rhino.

The Colonel, resplendent in seeming tailored ACUs, bear of any insignia save for an Eagle and a starred CIB fixed Dillard with icy stare as he reported to him, wearing clean, if rumpled ACUs himself.

“Mister Dillard, will please explain to me why you deemed it appropriate to launch a direct raid into the Korangal Valley with minimum support and next to know back up?”

“Sir, I received what I believed to be actionable intelligence on the whereabouts of the local Al-Queada commander and decided that it was better to act quickly and risk the possible casualties than to let the trail go cold, sir. If I may Colonel, a bad plan executed violenty now is better than a good plan later, sir.”

“Captain, be that as it may, you didn’t have a bad plan, you had no plan, and you failed to execute it at all. You didn’t go off half cocked, you went off without a fucking magazine. I want you out of my detachment.”

And with that, Dillard had lost his edge. The hard charging frat boy turned commando had long lived by his instincts, and had more often than not succeeded for it, he earned the first of his two Silver Stars as a young Ranger platoon leader in the Shai Kot valley by leading from the front and acting with aggression. It had worked and had fed his ego. His team had somewhat sarcastically, but with a twinge of respect, had referred to himself as Captain American, and he had secretly reveled in it. For once, he was good at something, people thought so, and he was rewarded for it. And perhaps best of all, it was something that Karen could never do, by virtue of her wearing panties in lieu of boxers.

Militia Camp, Sudan
Commander Mahi al-Shaddi sipped at his bitter tea as he listened to the Doctor before him. Commander al-Shaddi, who had been little more than a private in the Sudanese Army before defecting, called the man Doctor, which was almost correct. The man, Hari Aslam had been a micro-biology grad student at the University of Cairo before being deported by Egyptian security forces. Since then he had been taken in by the al-Shaddi Militia, the rather grandiose name for the cell al-Shaddi ran out in the wastelands of the Sudanese desert.
“Commander, it appears as if this strain of Ebola is more resilient to temperature changes than any other known strand.” Aslam concluded his briefing.
“Explain that further please, Doctor.” The Commander asked, for even though he was a terrorist leader, the intricacies of micro-biology were lost on him.
“Sir, Ebola is very a dangerous bug, however, it as also very fragile. It can’t survive in any temperatures less than about 35 degrees, and it has a very high fatality rate. It often kill’s its host before it can replicate. But this new strain seems to be able to survive at temperatures well below 35 degress, giving it a large potential to be useful to our cause, Allah willing
“How many people know of this new strain, Doctor?”
“Just a few, Commander. I heard about it from a colleague recently returned form one of the refugee camps in Chad. An American imperialist discovered it.”
“I see. So how useful would it be to us?”
“Potentially very. I would need a sample of it and a live host.”
“Very well, Doctor. Take a team with you and get what you need. Oh, and kill the American.”
“Yes, sir.” The Doctor stood and took his leave. The Commander bowed his head and uttered a brief prayer of thanks to Allah. He could now strike at the Americans, and strike hard. Perhaps he would even assume a leadership role in the movement. Perhaps. Allah Ackbar!
I like to think, that before that Navy SEAL double tapped bin Laden in the head, he kicked him, so that we could truly say we put a boot in his ass.
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