Jun 22, 2026 5:10 pm
"I do not recall visiting anyone's dreams last night." Anastasia says pushing her hair back from her eyes. Everyone turns. Her expression is unreadable — not joking, not denying, just stating a fact.
DeStefano blinks.
Jimmy stares at her like she just confirmed the existence of elves.
Beltrain sighs, rubbing his face, "…Jesus Christ. It’s too damn early for this."
The hooch slowly exhales — tension, confusion, and the lingering cold of the blizzard mixing in the air.
Ana frowns at the mountain of gear, "How come you American's did not simply bury Soviets in equipment? They may have had 10,000 old piece-of-junk tanks from the fifties and sixties in Eastern Europe but you guys gots some really nice underwear." A grin spreads across Ana's face.
"You are still looking for planes that got shot down?" her face turns more serious.
The room is still half‑frozen in silence.
Beltrain exhales, long and slow — the kind of breath that carries six days of cold, hunger, and bad luck. "Yeah. We’re still looking." He steps closer to the table, eyes scanning the CIF piles like he’s trying to remember what "indoors" feels like. "We found pieces. Not enough to say who made it out and who didn’t… Wreckage was scattered all over the ridge. Snow kept covering our tracks faster than we could make ’em."
He rubs a hand over his face — not dramatic, just bone‑deep tired.
"Intel figured maybe there were some birds that might have gone in under control of some sort. Maybe someone walked away. (shakes his head) Didn’t see any sign of that. Just metal, canvas, and a whole lotta wind trying to kill us."
A quiet moment passes as snow melts in slow drips from the returning patrol’s gear.
Seeing the whole group come in, with all of their...interesting...personalities, Jason figured he ought to introduce himself. He walked up to the Staff Sergeant and reached out a hand.
"Master Sergeant Jason Black. We're here because we're prepping to go out soon; a lurp of our own. What was your search area?"
Beltrain looks at the offered hand for a moment — not out of disrespect, but because he’s that tired. Then he grips it firmly. "Ridge line north‑northwest of here. (beat) About six klicks past the tree line, then another four along the spine. Wind was bad enough to peel your damn skin off."
Jason nods once — absorbing, calculating. "Any sign of a controlled impact?"
Beltrain huffs a humorless breath. Shaking his head, "Didn’t look like it. Wreckage. Nothing big enough to suggest anything was under control. Just bits and pieces all over. Snow kept burying everything faster than we could dig it out."
Jason’s jaw tightens — not fear, not frustration, just a man slotting information into a mental map. "Understood."
Ana watches him with quiet curiosity.
Jimmy eyes him like he’s trying to decide if this new guy is crazy, competent, or both.
Beltrain releases Jason’s hand. "If you’re heading out there… pack light, move fast, and do not trust the weather. It’ll kill you quicker than the Russians."
Jason nods again — a silent acknowledgment between professionals.
After satisfied with the newcomers and civilians packing, SSG Simmons looks over at McBride and says, "When was the OPORD again?"
McBride looks at Simmons, nodding, "Briefing is at 1900 hours this evening. So don’t eat a big dinner." McBride starts to turn, hesitates, and turns back to the room.
"Oh, Bledsoe, you need to report to the motorpool before chow. Something over there needing some of your special kind of care for our little outing."
Hearing the discussion between Ana and Simmons, McBride turns back toward Ana and Simmons. "Civilians with weapons are considered unlawful combatants, treated as spies and saboteurs under the Geneva Convention. For example — if a civilian shoots at a patrol, the enemy doesn’t have to take ’em prisoner. They can treat ’em like a spy or a saboteur. which means they can be summarily executed. Uniforms are a form of protection affording treatment as prisoners of war should capture occur. Without a uniform, you get no rights. No POW status. No Red Cross visit. It’s your choice, whether you embrace the uniform, of course. If you get captured, you get treated as a prisoner of war — not a spy with a rifle. But the ECWCS system does what it’s supposed to do — keep you alive in weather that kills fast. And I’m gonna insist you’ve got at least the same cold‑weather protection as the rest of us. I’m not losing anybody to frostbite or a technicality."
The blizzard howls outside.
DeStefano blinks.
Jimmy stares at her like she just confirmed the existence of elves.
Beltrain sighs, rubbing his face, "…Jesus Christ. It’s too damn early for this."
The hooch slowly exhales — tension, confusion, and the lingering cold of the blizzard mixing in the air.
Ana frowns at the mountain of gear, "How come you American's did not simply bury Soviets in equipment? They may have had 10,000 old piece-of-junk tanks from the fifties and sixties in Eastern Europe but you guys gots some really nice underwear." A grin spreads across Ana's face.
"You are still looking for planes that got shot down?" her face turns more serious.
The room is still half‑frozen in silence.
Beltrain exhales, long and slow — the kind of breath that carries six days of cold, hunger, and bad luck. "Yeah. We’re still looking." He steps closer to the table, eyes scanning the CIF piles like he’s trying to remember what "indoors" feels like. "We found pieces. Not enough to say who made it out and who didn’t… Wreckage was scattered all over the ridge. Snow kept covering our tracks faster than we could make ’em."
He rubs a hand over his face — not dramatic, just bone‑deep tired.
"Intel figured maybe there were some birds that might have gone in under control of some sort. Maybe someone walked away. (shakes his head) Didn’t see any sign of that. Just metal, canvas, and a whole lotta wind trying to kill us."
A quiet moment passes as snow melts in slow drips from the returning patrol’s gear.
Seeing the whole group come in, with all of their...interesting...personalities, Jason figured he ought to introduce himself. He walked up to the Staff Sergeant and reached out a hand.
"Master Sergeant Jason Black. We're here because we're prepping to go out soon; a lurp of our own. What was your search area?"
Beltrain looks at the offered hand for a moment — not out of disrespect, but because he’s that tired. Then he grips it firmly. "Ridge line north‑northwest of here. (beat) About six klicks past the tree line, then another four along the spine. Wind was bad enough to peel your damn skin off."
Jason nods once — absorbing, calculating. "Any sign of a controlled impact?"
Beltrain huffs a humorless breath. Shaking his head, "Didn’t look like it. Wreckage. Nothing big enough to suggest anything was under control. Just bits and pieces all over. Snow kept burying everything faster than we could dig it out."
Jason’s jaw tightens — not fear, not frustration, just a man slotting information into a mental map. "Understood."
Ana watches him with quiet curiosity.
Jimmy eyes him like he’s trying to decide if this new guy is crazy, competent, or both.
Beltrain releases Jason’s hand. "If you’re heading out there… pack light, move fast, and do not trust the weather. It’ll kill you quicker than the Russians."
Jason nods again — a silent acknowledgment between professionals.
After satisfied with the newcomers and civilians packing, SSG Simmons looks over at McBride and says, "When was the OPORD again?"
McBride looks at Simmons, nodding, "Briefing is at 1900 hours this evening. So don’t eat a big dinner." McBride starts to turn, hesitates, and turns back to the room.
"Oh, Bledsoe, you need to report to the motorpool before chow. Something over there needing some of your special kind of care for our little outing."
Hearing the discussion between Ana and Simmons, McBride turns back toward Ana and Simmons. "Civilians with weapons are considered unlawful combatants, treated as spies and saboteurs under the Geneva Convention. For example — if a civilian shoots at a patrol, the enemy doesn’t have to take ’em prisoner. They can treat ’em like a spy or a saboteur. which means they can be summarily executed. Uniforms are a form of protection affording treatment as prisoners of war should capture occur. Without a uniform, you get no rights. No POW status. No Red Cross visit. It’s your choice, whether you embrace the uniform, of course. If you get captured, you get treated as a prisoner of war — not a spy with a rifle. But the ECWCS system does what it’s supposed to do — keep you alive in weather that kills fast. And I’m gonna insist you’ve got at least the same cold‑weather protection as the rest of us. I’m not losing anybody to frostbite or a technicality."
The blizzard howls outside.
