Alpha Force: Desert Blood
By Jackson Steel
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Jackson Steel
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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ALPHA FORCE DOSSIER FILES
Name: McCall, Frank J.
Rank: Marine Sergeant
Age: 32
Height: 6’2”
Weight: 242 lb
Hair: Shaved
Place of Birth: Biloxi, Mississippi
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Zegers, Wesley D.
Rank: Marine Corporal
Age: 30
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 202 lb
Hair: Black
Place of Birth: Washington D.C.
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Satler, Andrew S.
Rank: Marine Lance Corporal
Age: 28
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 180 lb
Hair: Dark Brown
Place of Birth: Sacramento, California
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Shepherd, Jason C.
Rank: Marine Private First Class
Age: 26
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 198 lb
Hair: Black
Place of Birth: Brooklyn, New York
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Dylan, Benjamin D.
Rank: Marine Private First Class
Age: 24
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 192 lb
Hair: Blond
Place of Birth: Dallas, Texas
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Diaz, Dakota D.
Rank: Marine Private First Class
Age: 23
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 194 lb
Hair: Black
Place of Birth: Tucson, Arizona
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Briggs, Tyler W.
Rank: Marine Private
Age: 21
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 170 lb
Hair: Blond
Place of Birth: Blue Springs, Iowa
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Name: Mason, Sean T.
Rank: Marine Private
Age: 19
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 168 lb
Hair: Light Brown
Place of Birth: Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Last Mission: ENIGMA, THE MIDDLE EAST
Somewhere in the Middle East
Satler lost Private Briggs somewhere between the corridor and the stairs leading to the basement.
Inside the south building, the smoke was thick.
Satler had found his way through the veil with Briggs close behind.
They passed an open door and two black-masked terrorists came at them.
The butt of a rifle snapped against Briggs’ temple before a pair of hands hauled him backward into the smoke.
“Briggs!”
Satler could no longer see the young Private. He couldn’t fire back, not knowing where Briggs was. All he could do was retreat as fast as he could.
He bolted to the end of the corridor, dodging a spray of bullets that plucked rock and shards off the wall beside him. He reached a staircase that wound down to a basement level where the smoke cleared, only to be met by four more terrorists firing at him.
Satler fired back, blowing two of the terrorists clear off their feet, then banked hard right, crashing through a door into a small dank room. There was a second door in there that he kicked open before weaving his way through a maze-like tunnel that soon spat him out into a large chamber—directly into the masked faces of three more attackers armed with machetes.
The young marine raised his assault rifle, but a machete came down hard on his forearm, slicing it open and knocking the M16 from his hands. Satler roared in pain, dropped to the floor, then scooped up his weapon with his good arm and managed to fire off a short burst of bullets, killing one of the three terrorists with a hit to the face. But another machete connected with his shoulder and his rifle skidded across the room once again, this time out of reach.
Blood spurted from his wound.
Shouts of abuse filled the air in the unknown language of the terrorists.
“Fuck you,” Satler grunted back at them.
The two remaining terrorists raised their blades and barked even louder, like savage dogs in a pack fight. They were gesturing for Satler to remove his uniform, while they gestured threats to hack off his head.
Satler knew he could get out of this.
All he had to do was get to his weapon.
2:51 Hours Earlier (was actually thinking that rather than having Chapter 1, 2 ect, we simply have Navy style time as chapters ie Mission day 1—0800hours)?
Chapter 1
The clouds raced swiftly across the sky like black tumbleweeds, their shadows rolling and sweeping across the desert, dark and menacing, low and threatening.
It was summer, and the air was stifling, even this early in the day. In a strange way, Satler had developed a quiet appreciation for the storms, even the menacing ones. They broke the heat. They cooled the crusty, dry earth. They gave relief, which was something this God-forsaken place needed desperately, in so many ways.
“It’s gonna miss us,” Briggs said behind Satler’s left shoulder. “Blow east.”
“You think?” Satler asked.
“I grew up on a farm,” Briggs grinned. “You get to know these things.”
“Lance Corporal Satler! Private Briggs! Hurry up and strip! This is your last shower for a week and you got exactly—” the Sarge checked his watch, for dramatic effect more than anything else, “—sixty seconds! Otherwise we’re packin’ up and movin’ out whether you’re washed or not.”
The Sarge spat a wad of beef jerky on the ground, as if to punctuate his order with assertiveness. He was a mean 32-year-old son-of-a-bitch from Mississippi; a mountain of a man with no love, no friends and no fear. But he had a whole shitload of respect from his men.
“Sir, yes sir, Sarge!” Satler took his eyes off the storm and dumped the last crate of food supplies into the back of the jeep. He slapped Briggs on the back and jerked his head toward the showers. “Come on, buddy. You stink as bad as I do.”
“I thought I smelt like a buttercup,” Briggs joked with a wink. He was a good-natured kid, tough and not easily perturbed or pissed off; a 21-year-old Iowa farm boy with brown eyes, an honest smile and blond hair that grew fast and wild like the wheat back home. He had to keep getting it trimmed back, and Satler noticed it was just about due for another cut.
The showers were nothing but four gallon drums of water, suspended from a rope, with a pull-cord attached to release the water. Each marine was allowed three pulls: one to wash the sand, sweat and grime off; one to work the soap into a lather; and one to wash the suds off. There were no women in Satler’s unit, so there was no need for curtains or dividers.
Corporal Zegers, Private First Class Dylan and Private Mason were already scrubbing hard, working up a thick foam of soap on their hardened marines’ bodies. The frothy water ran in rivulets along the parched brown earth, soon to be washed away completely by the approaching storm if it stayed on course and didn’t swing east like Briggs predicted.
“It’s about time you polished up that ass of yours, Satler,” bellowed Dylan in his southern drawl, a smart-ass smile on his big lips. “It was startin’ to lose its shine.”
“You wanna shine it for me, Dylan?” Satler grinned back.
“Yours truly, king of the circle jerk, would be honored to lend a hand,” Dylan bowed theatrically. He was a 24-year-old Texan with a hard body and a libido to match his attitude. His fist tugged at the air as though he was jacking off an invisible cock. His stroke was smooth and effortless, a motion he had practiced to perfection with pride.
Satler laughed off Dylan’s quips and swiftly unbuckled his helmet, his rifle strap and his bullet-proof flap-vest which, together with his M16 and his grenade-loaded utility belt, weighed almost as much as he did. It was a load he carried with ease, thanks to the non-stop work-outs he did as a teenager, the intensive training he endured back home, and now the non-stop adrenalin rush of MAGTF.
He peeled off his MARPAT desert shirt and marine issue green T to reveal a body that was perfectly carved. His skin was brown from the desert sun, and his broad shoulders descended into a V shape down to a slim toned waist. His abs were tight and rigid, his chest was muscular with a sparse trail of hair, and his biceps seemed disproportionately large, the result of his many days spent digging trenches and stacking sandbags and hauling around hefty military equipment.
He looked like a god.
Alpha Force Special Ops Marine Corps expected nothing less of their men.
Satler pulled off his marine issue leather boots and dropped his cargoes.
“Get the fuck outta the shower, Dylan!” he shouted with a grin.
When Dylan made no effort to surrender his position, Satler grabbed the young Texan’s arm and wrestled him out of the shower. He was slippery and wet, but the Lance Corporal got a good grip around Dylan’s broad back and shoulders and managed to haul him out. Satler jumped under the water before Dylan could even wash the soap off.
“Sorry to manhandle you and get ya’ll hard,” Satler grinned, putting on his best Texan accent, “but I tend to have that effect.” He gestured with amusement down Dylan’s soapy hard body to his now stiff cock.
“Apology accepted,” Dylan winked, then made the point, “Sorry to do the same to you.”
Satler—and the other marines—looked to see Satler’s own thick cock flying at full mast. “Fuck you, Dylan.”
“Anytime you want.”
Satler simply rolled his eyes and shook his head, laughing still.
“Better make it quick, you two,” said Zegers, looking at Satler and Briggs and handing his shower over to the young private from Iowa. “The Sarge wants us at the target by noon.”
Corporal Zegers dried himself quickly, toweling down his abs and his large black cock. The 30-year-old African-American was tall and solid, with muscle stacked upon muscle. In college he had studied law, but all the red-tape and loopholes left him disillusioned. He found his purpose and a more direct way of seeking justice when he joined the marines.
Zegers looked over at the third shower now, at young Private Mason grinning at the banter between Satler and Dylan. “And what are you smirking at?” the Corporal asked curiously.
Mason, the golden-haired, brown-skinned, 19-year-old kid from the beaches of Florida, stood naked and wet in the showers with a shrug and a simple smile on his handsome face. “I’m not grinnin’ at nothin’, sir. I’m just young, dumb and full of cum.”
“Don’t think that makes you anything special in this unit, private,” Zegers commented with one raised eyebrow. “Now towel off and start packin’ the ammo. Dylan, make sure Shepherd’s done with the truck. Satler, come with me. Briggs, secure the camp and make sure we’re ready to roll. It’s time to go, sweethearts! Move it, marines! Move it, move it!”
* * *
Dylan was still wet even after dressing—the water seeping through his T-shirt and cargoes—as he reached the truck. He saw Private First Class Jason Shepherd’s legs protruding out from under it and heard the clunk and tinker of tools. Dylan squatted beside Shepherd’s thigh and looked under the vehicle.
“Yo, Shep! You done jerkin’ off under there or what?”
Dylan heard Shepherd put down his tools, then two hands emerged from beneath the truck and Shep—a New York mechanic in another life—hauled himself out from under the vehicle, his back sliding along the desert sand. He was shirtless and his torso and face were covered in grease and motor oil.
“Yep, all done,” he winked and gave Dylan a grime-covered thumbs up. “Just giving it a quick once-over. I don’t trust this goddamn desert heat.”
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and left a fresh smear of grease there, then wiped his oily palms clean on his torso, all the way from his hairy chest to his abs.
“Damn I need a shower.”
“Better hurry,” Dylan said. “Sarge is wrappin’ things up.”
The 26-year-old from Brooklyn sat up quickly, looked over to the showers, then bolted, kicking off his boots and peeling off his cargoes as he ran. He snatched up a bar of soap and released the water before Corporal Zegers even noticed him make the dash for the showers.
Shep cleaned up fast, rubbing the soap through his black hair, foaming up his chest and arms, abs and legs, working up a lather around his heavy cock and his bouncing, low hanging balls.
Then Zegers spotted him. “Shepherd!”
“Sir, yes, sir! Getting out now!”
Dylan laughed.
* * *
Zegers and Satler joined the Sarge and Private First Class Diaz on a ridge a short distance from the campsite. Diaz was twisting focus on a pair of binoculars, looking intently toward the western horizon.
“We’ll easily make it by noon, sir,” he was saying to the Sarge. The dark-haired Diaz from Tucson knew his way around a desert. His mother was the daughter of a Mexican landowner, his father a Native American tracker. The tall, handsome 23-year-old lowered his lenses and turned to his commanding officer. “If they’re expecting us at all, it’ll be at night. An attack in broad daylight might work in our favor.”
The Sarge turned to Zegers and Satler. “Are we ready to roll?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” they responded in unison.