Interviews:WW3 P-B-P Story

[Rivara]

(THIS IS FICTION!!! ROUGH DRAFT.)

A soldier walks through the door of the bare room, gray paint giving it a dull look. He sits down, facing the window after a quick salute.
"Private Rayna Moreno, reporting as ordered." She says, the light flickering to life and bathing her features in it.
She moves a hand to smooth an imaginary wrinkle on her shoulder.
"Very well," A voice says, the intercom operated from behind the black one-sided mirror coming to life.
"You do know why you are here?" The voice questions, completely bland and without life.
"To be questioned about the action just outside Montreal, Canada." She states, clearing her throat nervously.
"Very good. Start at the beggining, and tell us all you can remember... The beggining is the day when Washington D.C. was bombed."
"Right... Well..."

It had all happened so quickly, with the nuclear bombing and all that. My guess is no one saw it coming, even the Spooks in the Pentagon and C.I.A..
We had been fighting for... what? Two years? And then the Confedracy goes and bombs the Cap... I was afraid, and later justified in this fear.
Colonel Irwin Archer was ordered to move in on the hills overlooking a small town just south of Montreal, with Britain and the Coalition unable to get over to the U.S. in time, we had to handle the enemy on our own.
"We're going to be the Anvil, and the 55th Mechanized the Hammer. Simple strategy, and it should work." He had said. 'should'.

"Damn... Confeds are dug in like ticks in those hills." I said, looking at my seargent.
"Well, we just happen to have to take them, Private. You can bitch later, after the war." The seargent said, his unlit cigar probably pulping in his mouth.
I think the Seargent hated me, he usually put me on point, or would give me some other crap detail - I swear he wanted me dead.
But, he had put me to a challenge, and it just so happens I'm a competitive girl.
We moved in as the sun started to set, fighters streaking overhead and flinging away their missiles, hitting tactical targets with spot-on accuracy.
The Seargent sprinted at the head of our charging group, letting out a yell as he fired his M17 to keep any curious heads from popping up.
The rest of us followed, a split second later, and repeated the process. Similar charges were played out with varied effect along the Confeds' defenses.
The reason they had stopped using the Human Wave in assualts was for one simple reason:You wasted so many lives in an assualt that wasn't a sure-fire win.
What we were doing here was the same, and the losses probably mirrored a fraction of what happened on Omaha Beach on D-Day.
One of my squadmates stopped a bullet with his face and chest, blood and bone shot from the wound, natural physics solving the small dilemma of a bullet wanting to be in the same place as the flesh in a body.
He crumpled to the ground, tripping me up, and - not-so-funnily - saving me from catching a few bullets that stitched the ground just in front of me.
"KEEP MOVING, JUST KEEP MOVING!" Corporal Allen yelled, urging the people around him on.
Allen was a veteran of the war, and with an attitude to match. He usually sat quietly in a corner somewhere, with the eyes of an old man, despite the fact that he couldn't have been more than twenty-seven.
But he was always wise and fair, dispensing justice as he saw fit.
So when he said to keep moving, I did.
One of the Confeds yelled something as we charged into the zig-zag network of trenches, I fired my M17 and took cover behind some crates, firing randomly where most of the fire would threaten me.

"Could you explain to us, what is an M17?" The voice asks curiously.
Rayna thinks a moment, and then moves some hair out of her face.
"After the Russian Crisis, the U.S. military decided it needed a better gun, modern, flexible, reliable, -and above all - cheap" She says continuing her chain of thought.
"The M17 is made with mainly plastic and steel reinforcements in the superstructure. It is able to link up into the Land Warrior Tactical Net and has a helmet feed. The HUD in your Helmet's 'eyeglass' - which hangs over your eye - has a two-times zoom, along with ammo counter, and aiming reticule."
"Is it accurate?"
"Its rifled, and all the techno gizmos in it make for some pretty accurate crap. But all in all, it does the same thing the M16 did."
"Then, please. Continue."

After a few more hours of fighting, storming pillboxes, waiting for air support to hit enemy tanks, and generally exhausting ourselves, we stopped, a mile past the hills and into a forest.
"Sarge, we done yet?" Private Williams complained, setting down the Land Warrior System box.
"Alright then, take a five-minute rest." He said, and then turned to me.
"Private Moreno, move up and check the situation."
"Yes, sir!" I said, moving up through the undergrowth.
The terrain had drastically changed after the war started, people stopped farming so close to the U.S. border, and then grass and other plants moved in.
The description of 'Forest' is rather loose, as its just a landscape pockmarked with trees, but there were a lot of shrubs, bushes, and tall grass.
Night enveloped everything in a blueish-gray sort of color. Making it easier to see the flashes of light and hear the crack of gunfire.
Nothing living stirred, not even cricketts chirped.
Several miles out, I had a perfect view of Montreal getting bombarded.

"We took the town of St.Phillipe the next morning." She finishes, taking a breath in.
"Thank you, Private. You have been invaluable, please, send in the next person."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She says, and walks out.


(Notes: This is a rough-draft. And I will be finishing Aeven Station soon, so no worries.
This is my first time writing a first-person fiction story.
Next interview will be about HOW WW3 started... lots of political stuff in it, so it will take a little while. Because I suck at that.)