[u]2. Ouverwald[/u]

Colonel John T. Ouverwald ([i]officially[/i] retired) glanced briefly in the direction of his 9mm. It was, reassuringly, safely holstered on his hip. If (God Forbid, of course), he should find himself under extreme duress, then he was authorized to consider its use. Not only did the brass see fit to cheerfully throw him behind enemy lines, all-but-rob him of his only practical weapon (sure, he had his knife, but there's a well-known saying about [i]that[/i]), and leave him stranded for three days, they'd also failed to warn him about the thirty or so enemy reinforcements that were likely also [i]officially[/i] retired. From the looks of them, a few might even be [i]officially[/i] dead. If he had any sense at all, he'd march back into the recruiting office however-long-ago that was and slap his young and very green self until he turned right back around.

At least he'd stop himself from volunteering for the blacker ops.

Meanwhile, he was stuck underneath a leaky dumpster, and had been for at least nine hours, ever since the impossible reinforcements had shown up. And set up camp. For nine hours. Of all the God-Damned half-assed "villages" they could have chosen, it was the only one that had access to the goat path up the Thrice-Good-God-Damned mountain. And up that track, if you cared to call it that, somewhere behind a "really big tree", was hidden a small piece of paper that would convince some upper-echelon motherfucker to get his ass in gear and join the cause of patriotism.

It had been an hour into lying beneath the dumpster when Col. Ouverwald finally got a proper glimpse of the mountain.

It didn't [i]have[/i] any motherfucking trees.

He wasn't even really bothered by the smell of the dumpster, or the nefarious juice soaking through his generic fatigues. You got used to that. You got used to the discomfort caused by never being able to move, but never being able to relax. After a while, the prods of ill-placed stones disappeared, too. No, what really got to you was the boredom. He couldn't even hum, couldn't even tap out a tune with his fingers. Brief naps, so brief that he could never tell if he'd even taken one, were all the sleep that he could afford to steal.

He'd gone over his options automatically when he saw the mountain. John was well-versed in dealing with screw-ups. That's why they kept giving him more. A rueful smile spread across his face at that. Truth be told, there weren't a whole lot of other places he'd rather be, at the moment. So he considered the possible situations he might be in.

[i]Option 1:[/i] This is the wrong mountain. That meant he'd have to figure out which mountain was the real one. Let alone where and who the brass' contact was. And he was cutting it awfully close to the three-day deadline as it was. 
[i]Option 2:[/i] This is the right mountain, and the objective is any-God-Damned-where on it. Deadlines. Time.
[i]Option 3:[/i] This is the right mountain, there is no objective, and those reinforcements are for me. Shit.
[i]Option 4:[/i] This is the right mountain, the objective is there, and those reinforcements already have it by now. Which meant a whole host of worse things. Like: a leak the size of Mississippi.

Of the four, only 1 and 3 seemed at all probable. Either those men would disperse, or they wouldn't. Sooner or later they'd check beneath the dumpster. Likely sooner. Even though it looked flush to the ground, some over-zealous bastard would notice a small scattering of dirt and figure it out. They had, of course, checked inside the dumpster proper before settling in. He laid odds on Major MudFace filling the role of over-zealous bastard. MudFace sat apart from the rest of the soldiers, and would regularly get up and check their perimeter. He never relaxed, always sat bolt upright, never seemed to fucking blink, and always glanced at the dumpster right when Ouverwald was going to make his move.

What he wouldn't give for a crossword puzzle. He hated crossword puzzles. His grandfather had been obsessed with them, constantly pouring over this or the other paper while Ouverwald was busy with the dishes. Crossword puzzles had always taken a stale, bourbon-smelling air after his childhood.

[i]Where the hell was MudFace?[/i]

He wasn't on his favorite rubble pile. He wasn't grabbing food. He wasn't sitting near the fire. There's no goddamned way he was asleep: that would involve actual [i]good[/i] luck. There was a man, back to Ouverwald, on the other side of the fire, peeing. The man was the right height, right build, probably the right posture. It [i]had[/i] to be MudFace. Either way, MudFace wasn't staring straight at Ouverwald.

Ouverwald slowly shimmied back, moving toward the small pile of dirt that led out from underneath the dumpster. His nose twitched of its own accord. Ouverwald froze. Probably just sweat irritating his nose. And it was utterly moronic to attribute mystical powers to a random muscle spasm just because he'd happened to have noticed it once right before his unit got ambushed in Afghanistan. There was even a whole psychology behind things like that. Like "always" getting red lights when you were late. You just noticed it more because it mattered.

But, still. That one time, in Afghanistan. Now here, on some jungle island the Brass couldn't even pronounce right. He waited.

A blur of movement in the corner of his eye - muddy boots, right next to the dumpster. Silent as hell. [i]MudFace.[/i] Undoubtedly. No other soldier bothered to move that silently any more - fires tended to give your presence away more than footsteps ever could.

His nose fucking knew it, somehow. 

MudFace's boot stopped by the dumpster, facing it. "I know you're there. You can come out now," MudFace said.

Shitshitshitshit. 

No. This was the oldest trick in the book. MudFace had probably said that to a thousand different hiding places that night. 

[i]But what if…?[/i]

Ouverwald didn't dare to fucking breathe. You never knew. He carefully moved his hand toward his knife.

"Hmm," MudFace said, and then he walked back toward the fire.

Fuck it. Either he'd die or he wouldn't. Ouverwald scrambled from beneath the dumpster while MudFace was walking away, and moved to the other side of a building, covering his tracks as best he could. After the dumpster, the evening air felt freezing. His muscles were rigid. But he backtracked from building to building until he was safe uncer cover of the jungle.

He'd never doubt his nose again. Now all he had to do was find another way through the village, or another way up the mountain. His nose twitched again. Fuck. He dropped to the ground, scanning the foliage.

"Colonel, Meringue pie," a voice whispered. That was the abort phrase. What the hell? He stared at the place that the voice had come from. There was an honest-to-God Major General staring back at him through mud and sweat. His opinion of the brass fluttered a bit.

"Sir," Ouverwald attempted a salute from his position while remaining concealed. You never knew which general would be a hardass. 
"At ease. Major Branston will complete your mission. Your new orders are to brief Branston and then follow me aboard the [i]North Dakota[/i] for immediate evac. There you will await further instructions." the general said.
"Yes, sir," Ouverwald said automatically. Now that he knew where to look, he could see Branston. Branston looked green as all hell, weighed down with 15 different things he wouldn't need. What the fuck was going on?

Ouverwald revised his opinion of Branston after his briefing. The kid had a wild-eyed determination on his face. He looked like he was going to Disneyland, not some op gone so fubar that Satan wouldn't touch it. Ouverwald recognized that look. He'd had it himself many times.

As Ouverwald got up to follow the Major General, he couldn't help but wonder again what the fuck was going on.