Post by smaug007 on Nov 26, 2006 1:14:28 GMT -5
It was hot, but it was always hot in Iraq. The sand got everywhere, somehow reaching Major Richard Crompton’s bed. He brushed what he could off, but there would still be some uncomfortable remnants left when he climbed back in tonight. Today was the last day that Special Assistant Crompton would be in Iraq.
He took an uneventful ride to the main base. That was an achievement in itself; his colleagues had to display constant vigilance in this place. Just last week, they were forced to shoot at what they thought was someone aiming a rocket launcher at them. It turned out that the shadowy figure in the cranny of the building was just a child playing with a slingshot with his friends.
“Morning Major Crompton.”
“Jim,” Richard acknowledged the greeting from Desk Sergeant Jim Western.
Richard got straight to work. Richard was reputed to know everything, and this was not far from the truth. He reached the position through his knowledge and his ability to recall everything he had read. His ability to know the information that was needed faster than almost anyone and almost instantly was legendary; he was one of the most popular people at quiz nights. Bypassing the traditional routes that sent those enrolled in the military into combat and field duties, he was earmarked for higher position, for leadership roles.
Richard was in meetings all day. It was his job to advise on strategy, drawing on his knowledge of facts, figures and comparative analysis. In all of their time in Iraq, he was constantly reviewing reports and giving general advice to those in charge. Their superiors hoped that Major Crompton would be able to bring fresh eyes to the conflict, and he had. Those in charge were amazed at how much data he was able to absorb.
At first they doubted him.
“…and besides, we don’t know where they’ll strike next.”
“Actually,” Richard said, one of the first things he said in his professional capacity, “Judging from the last month’s attacks alone, we can estimate where they’ll strike next. See,” he pointed at the map, “90% of the attacks have come along these three routes, and 75% of them have been through car bombs.”
“How do you know that?” One of the officers asked.
“It’s all in your incident reports,” Richard responded matter-of-factly.
“What, you actually read that?”
“Well, yeah, someone’s got to make use of all the paper you produce.”
When he had established he actually read the reports, they started using that knowledge. At first it was hesitatingly, the occasional question; Richard watched more than he talked. More and more, he started to give input, and gradually, the leaders started to listen to him. Once though, someone doubted his word.
“…and so if we want to best utilise our strike teams, you need to put Kurdish speakers in all teams. So far, only three of them have anyone with any Kurdish language training.”
“Yeah, and only seven of them have seen High School Musical.” Captain Luntz said sarcastically. He had never been happy with those back home sending someone in to do the job they had been doing from the start. “Prove it.”
“It’s all in their personal files.” Richard responded.
“Bullshit they are, and no one reads them anyway. I guess they even say that four of them were born in the USA?”
“Actually, only four were not born in the USA, and I know that because I actually read the files and remember the things in them.”
“Prove it.”
“What do you want to bet that I’m right?” Richard said, coolly. He knew he was right. He had read the reports, and had remembered everything in them.
“You ready to loose a carton of beer?” Beer was worth as much as gold in this dry desert; some said even more, as you could actually spend the night with beer. Getting a nod from Richard, Captain Luntz shouted out for some lowly administrative aid to get the files.
Everyone in the room waited. Silently, they aligned themselves with one side, but all really wanted to know if the rumours were true, that Special Assistant Crompton really did know some freaky details that no-one else knew. The administrative aid came back later with several files. Captain Luntz read them and growled softly “Dicky, what type of beer do you want?”
The meeting ended there, and Richard shared the beer with all, including Captain Luntz. From that day, no one in the command centre questioned when Richard gave them data. Conclusions they disagreed with and was encouraged, but they turned to him for the facts that no-one else ever remembered or even knew about.
So today was his last day. After meetings in the morning and packing in the afternoon, he had dinner with some of the leaders.
“So Dicky,” Captain Luntz said through a mouthful of food, “where are you headed to after this hell?” Captain Luntz was the only one who called him Dicky. The ‘High School Musical’ incident, as it had become known, and Richard’s performance in the field had earned him his respect.
“They’re assigning me to deal with mutants.”
“That’s almost as bad as staying here! I wouldn’t want to deal with those people. You know what I think?” He didn’t let anyone answer. “If some of them decided to work for us, use their power for the US of A, we would have these bastards cleaned up and go home. And if not, then lock ‘em up until they agree.”
“Captain, you’re paid to follow orders, not to think.”
“Yes, Special Assistant.” Those at the table smiled; they knew that Richard was right and that he did outrank all of them there.
Some time later that night, Special Assistant Richard Crompton climbed aboard a plane and headed off. “We’ve got to make a few stop-offs before we get home” the pilot yelled over the engine and propellers. Richard gave him thumbs up; as long as he got home eventually, it was all good.
They stopped off a couple of times somewhere, and he got lost in pre-paperwork reading for his next assignment. He stayed a night at an unremarkable army base, and kept absorbing more information. No one asked him about his time in Iraq, and he didn’t tell.
On the final leg back from the Middle East to USA, he was reading more material when he reached the end of a page. Taking a look out the window, he saw the sun against the horizon. He didn’t know whether it was going up or coming down, and he didn’t really care. He had been there to do a job and was going to another one; he was damn good at what he did, and that’s all that really mattered.
He turned back to the report and did something he hadn’t done for as long as he could remember. He turned back the page and started reading again from the last heading. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he had just read. He read the rest of the report again, and while taking a drink, moved it to his read pile. Actually, as he put it on top of the report labelled ‘Genosha: Political and Economic History’ he found himself struggling with remembering key players names. This had never happened before.
He looked out the window again; the sun had been setting, and Richard put the papers aside to get some rest.
His mind didn’t stop working immediately. Was this the dreaded mid-life crisis that the psychologist can asked him about? He though back to part a session he had found himself in, somehow as part of ongoing health checks by the Office of Occupational Health and Safety.
“…alright, so, where do you see yourself in a few years?”
“What do you mean, Dr Lanthrope?”
“What do you see yourself doing in a few years? Still in the army, the same role, a change?”
Richard shook his head in amazement at the question. “I’m great at my job. No, I’m almost perfect at my job, better than anyone else in the army. I’ll keep doing this.”
Dr Lanthrope made a few notes and looked at Richard lying on the brown couch. “And how about in 5, 10, 15 years?”
Richard was almost bored at the question. “I’ll keep doing my job until they don’t want me or I die. I’m the one they come to for information, for answers. I provide answers; I go where they want me, and tell people how to fix their problems. I’m good at what I do and they know it.”
Dr Lanthrope tried to broach something.
“Special Assistant, it’s around this time that some people start falling into the mid-life-”
Richard got annoyed. “Seriously doctor, do you really think I’m going to suffer in that rut? I’m the best at what I do; I know it and the military knows it. I also love what I do; I’m virtually irreplaceable.”
With that, he picked himself off the couch, shook her hand and left. Had he stayed, he may have seen her write ‘Unlikely/will not suffer mid-life crisis. Seems very sure of himself-too cocky? No psychological concerns.’
Special Assistant Richard Crompton arrived back to the USA in the midst of a military storm. They were in disarray; apparently mutants all over the USA had lost their power, causing mass panic and confusion. The balance of life had drastically altered, and the military was being deployed to help keep the peace. From what he could gather, he was being deployed to O*N*E* as a security advisor.
He attended a few minor meetings, typically logistics support and the like. He came with big raps from his bosses and everyone that he had previously worked with. But the first few meetings were hard, too hard. He was taking home the same amount of material to read as he’d always done, but he wasn’t getting through it. Sometimes, he even had to read through reports twice, three times. Last week, he’d even forgot about the name of his driver. He went for another chat with the doctor, on their orders.
“So you think I have something wrong? Post-traumatic stress syndrome from Iraq?” He asked her mockingly.
“Why, do you think you do?” She had changed her look, but she was still wearing the same shoes as the first time he say her in the corridor…no, the second time…or was it the first…damn it, remember!
“No.”
“They sent you here for a reason, Richard.” This was the first time she had called him by his first name. “They report that you have not performed to the level anticipated. Is that true?”
He lay on her couch, silent, just listening to the clock tick away. Every tick brought his heart rate down, slower, stiller. He felt calm here, without anything needing to be done or remembered. She waited for him to speak, to reveal something of himself.
“They…they anticipate too much. Perfection, it seems, can be over-exaggerated.”
She tried a different tack. “I heard you had to kill someone in Iraq. Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“I also killed someone in Somalia many years ago, but I was fine then. I’m fine now.” But he was lying. His job was harder now, and he didn’t know how or why.
The phone rang, breaking the silence that had been growing. Frowning, she picked it up and listened before putting it down. “You’re needed; there’s been some kind of breakout.”
He got up off the couch, shook her hand and walked determinedly out of the room. He had a job to do, and he would give his all, even if it was that it was going to be very difficult. He had a reputation to uphold.
Had he been able to stay in the room, he might have seen what she wrote in her notes. ‘Very different from last time. Something’s changed him-Iraq? Mid-life? Something else? Wants/needs to be sure of himself, but now is not able to. Changed-better or worse?’
[Ok, so this is my official first fan writing for this audience. I await my fate...]
He took an uneventful ride to the main base. That was an achievement in itself; his colleagues had to display constant vigilance in this place. Just last week, they were forced to shoot at what they thought was someone aiming a rocket launcher at them. It turned out that the shadowy figure in the cranny of the building was just a child playing with a slingshot with his friends.
“Morning Major Crompton.”
“Jim,” Richard acknowledged the greeting from Desk Sergeant Jim Western.
Richard got straight to work. Richard was reputed to know everything, and this was not far from the truth. He reached the position through his knowledge and his ability to recall everything he had read. His ability to know the information that was needed faster than almost anyone and almost instantly was legendary; he was one of the most popular people at quiz nights. Bypassing the traditional routes that sent those enrolled in the military into combat and field duties, he was earmarked for higher position, for leadership roles.
Richard was in meetings all day. It was his job to advise on strategy, drawing on his knowledge of facts, figures and comparative analysis. In all of their time in Iraq, he was constantly reviewing reports and giving general advice to those in charge. Their superiors hoped that Major Crompton would be able to bring fresh eyes to the conflict, and he had. Those in charge were amazed at how much data he was able to absorb.
At first they doubted him.
“…and besides, we don’t know where they’ll strike next.”
“Actually,” Richard said, one of the first things he said in his professional capacity, “Judging from the last month’s attacks alone, we can estimate where they’ll strike next. See,” he pointed at the map, “90% of the attacks have come along these three routes, and 75% of them have been through car bombs.”
“How do you know that?” One of the officers asked.
“It’s all in your incident reports,” Richard responded matter-of-factly.
“What, you actually read that?”
“Well, yeah, someone’s got to make use of all the paper you produce.”
When he had established he actually read the reports, they started using that knowledge. At first it was hesitatingly, the occasional question; Richard watched more than he talked. More and more, he started to give input, and gradually, the leaders started to listen to him. Once though, someone doubted his word.
“…and so if we want to best utilise our strike teams, you need to put Kurdish speakers in all teams. So far, only three of them have anyone with any Kurdish language training.”
“Yeah, and only seven of them have seen High School Musical.” Captain Luntz said sarcastically. He had never been happy with those back home sending someone in to do the job they had been doing from the start. “Prove it.”
“It’s all in their personal files.” Richard responded.
“Bullshit they are, and no one reads them anyway. I guess they even say that four of them were born in the USA?”
“Actually, only four were not born in the USA, and I know that because I actually read the files and remember the things in them.”
“Prove it.”
“What do you want to bet that I’m right?” Richard said, coolly. He knew he was right. He had read the reports, and had remembered everything in them.
“You ready to loose a carton of beer?” Beer was worth as much as gold in this dry desert; some said even more, as you could actually spend the night with beer. Getting a nod from Richard, Captain Luntz shouted out for some lowly administrative aid to get the files.
Everyone in the room waited. Silently, they aligned themselves with one side, but all really wanted to know if the rumours were true, that Special Assistant Crompton really did know some freaky details that no-one else knew. The administrative aid came back later with several files. Captain Luntz read them and growled softly “Dicky, what type of beer do you want?”
The meeting ended there, and Richard shared the beer with all, including Captain Luntz. From that day, no one in the command centre questioned when Richard gave them data. Conclusions they disagreed with and was encouraged, but they turned to him for the facts that no-one else ever remembered or even knew about.
So today was his last day. After meetings in the morning and packing in the afternoon, he had dinner with some of the leaders.
“So Dicky,” Captain Luntz said through a mouthful of food, “where are you headed to after this hell?” Captain Luntz was the only one who called him Dicky. The ‘High School Musical’ incident, as it had become known, and Richard’s performance in the field had earned him his respect.
“They’re assigning me to deal with mutants.”
“That’s almost as bad as staying here! I wouldn’t want to deal with those people. You know what I think?” He didn’t let anyone answer. “If some of them decided to work for us, use their power for the US of A, we would have these bastards cleaned up and go home. And if not, then lock ‘em up until they agree.”
“Captain, you’re paid to follow orders, not to think.”
“Yes, Special Assistant.” Those at the table smiled; they knew that Richard was right and that he did outrank all of them there.
Some time later that night, Special Assistant Richard Crompton climbed aboard a plane and headed off. “We’ve got to make a few stop-offs before we get home” the pilot yelled over the engine and propellers. Richard gave him thumbs up; as long as he got home eventually, it was all good.
They stopped off a couple of times somewhere, and he got lost in pre-paperwork reading for his next assignment. He stayed a night at an unremarkable army base, and kept absorbing more information. No one asked him about his time in Iraq, and he didn’t tell.
On the final leg back from the Middle East to USA, he was reading more material when he reached the end of a page. Taking a look out the window, he saw the sun against the horizon. He didn’t know whether it was going up or coming down, and he didn’t really care. He had been there to do a job and was going to another one; he was damn good at what he did, and that’s all that really mattered.
He turned back to the report and did something he hadn’t done for as long as he could remember. He turned back the page and started reading again from the last heading. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he had just read. He read the rest of the report again, and while taking a drink, moved it to his read pile. Actually, as he put it on top of the report labelled ‘Genosha: Political and Economic History’ he found himself struggling with remembering key players names. This had never happened before.
He looked out the window again; the sun had been setting, and Richard put the papers aside to get some rest.
His mind didn’t stop working immediately. Was this the dreaded mid-life crisis that the psychologist can asked him about? He though back to part a session he had found himself in, somehow as part of ongoing health checks by the Office of Occupational Health and Safety.
“…alright, so, where do you see yourself in a few years?”
“What do you mean, Dr Lanthrope?”
“What do you see yourself doing in a few years? Still in the army, the same role, a change?”
Richard shook his head in amazement at the question. “I’m great at my job. No, I’m almost perfect at my job, better than anyone else in the army. I’ll keep doing this.”
Dr Lanthrope made a few notes and looked at Richard lying on the brown couch. “And how about in 5, 10, 15 years?”
Richard was almost bored at the question. “I’ll keep doing my job until they don’t want me or I die. I’m the one they come to for information, for answers. I provide answers; I go where they want me, and tell people how to fix their problems. I’m good at what I do and they know it.”
Dr Lanthrope tried to broach something.
“Special Assistant, it’s around this time that some people start falling into the mid-life-”
Richard got annoyed. “Seriously doctor, do you really think I’m going to suffer in that rut? I’m the best at what I do; I know it and the military knows it. I also love what I do; I’m virtually irreplaceable.”
With that, he picked himself off the couch, shook her hand and left. Had he stayed, he may have seen her write ‘Unlikely/will not suffer mid-life crisis. Seems very sure of himself-too cocky? No psychological concerns.’
Special Assistant Richard Crompton arrived back to the USA in the midst of a military storm. They were in disarray; apparently mutants all over the USA had lost their power, causing mass panic and confusion. The balance of life had drastically altered, and the military was being deployed to help keep the peace. From what he could gather, he was being deployed to O*N*E* as a security advisor.
He attended a few minor meetings, typically logistics support and the like. He came with big raps from his bosses and everyone that he had previously worked with. But the first few meetings were hard, too hard. He was taking home the same amount of material to read as he’d always done, but he wasn’t getting through it. Sometimes, he even had to read through reports twice, three times. Last week, he’d even forgot about the name of his driver. He went for another chat with the doctor, on their orders.
“So you think I have something wrong? Post-traumatic stress syndrome from Iraq?” He asked her mockingly.
“Why, do you think you do?” She had changed her look, but she was still wearing the same shoes as the first time he say her in the corridor…no, the second time…or was it the first…damn it, remember!
“No.”
“They sent you here for a reason, Richard.” This was the first time she had called him by his first name. “They report that you have not performed to the level anticipated. Is that true?”
He lay on her couch, silent, just listening to the clock tick away. Every tick brought his heart rate down, slower, stiller. He felt calm here, without anything needing to be done or remembered. She waited for him to speak, to reveal something of himself.
“They…they anticipate too much. Perfection, it seems, can be over-exaggerated.”
She tried a different tack. “I heard you had to kill someone in Iraq. Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“I also killed someone in Somalia many years ago, but I was fine then. I’m fine now.” But he was lying. His job was harder now, and he didn’t know how or why.
The phone rang, breaking the silence that had been growing. Frowning, she picked it up and listened before putting it down. “You’re needed; there’s been some kind of breakout.”
He got up off the couch, shook her hand and walked determinedly out of the room. He had a job to do, and he would give his all, even if it was that it was going to be very difficult. He had a reputation to uphold.
Had he been able to stay in the room, he might have seen what she wrote in her notes. ‘Very different from last time. Something’s changed him-Iraq? Mid-life? Something else? Wants/needs to be sure of himself, but now is not able to. Changed-better or worse?’
[Ok, so this is my official first fan writing for this audience. I await my fate...]