Johanneke 'Ratel' Rankin's Story

In one part of the Raven Defense compound, a Pakistani who was fresh into adulthood packed up a toolbox full of his work implements in preparation for travel while nearby, a young redhead with glasses tried to convince him to stay.

"Saladin, you just got to America less than a month ago. Why not stay a while and enjoy your new life here? Surely you'd be better off being the facility's gunsmith and armorer here than going into another warzone? After all, you've spent most of your life near war, don't you want to get away from it?"

"My apologies, Miss O'Connell, but I must go." replied 20-year-old Saladin Al-Darra. "I would feel more useful doing my work in an area where there is active fighting. Here, I am comfortable, yes, but I spend most of my time idle. The people here take excellent care of their own weapons, and there is hardly anything for me to repair. At least in a place where there is hostilities, my services will be utilized more frequently, and I actually feel as though I am making some sort of difference."

"Well since I can't convince you not to go, could you at least start addressing me by my first name? It's Mallorie, remember?"

"But-but, that would be grossly disrespectful of me, yes?" stammered the young gunsmith.

"Saladin, in this country, we are more relaxed when it comes to formality unless a situation warrants it. I would think that all those years spent around Americans would have taught you that." Mallorie explained with a friendly smile.

"Many apologies, Miss O'Conn---er, Mallorie. It is a difficult habit to abandon." replied Saladin with a sheepish smile of his own.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it, and you'll learn."

Mallorie's phone alerted her to a text message, and upon reading it, she clucked her tongue.

"I have to leave myself, Saladin, and I understand you need to get going, too. Could you do one more thing for me before we part ways?"

"What is your request?" he asked, latching his toolbox.

"Come back safe, Saladin. I'd hate to lose a new friend."

"...I will return, do not worry."
________________________________

"I still don't think it makes much sense for me to leave Africa only to go back there again." mused 25-year-old Johanneke 'Ratel' Rankin, riding in the back of a Ford Crown Victoria taxi (formerly a police cruiser) making its way through Aroostook county from Bangor International Airport.

"What was that, Miss?" asked the cab driver, glancing in his rearview mirror.

"Oh, just talking to myself, don't mind me." replied Johanneke with a friendly smile. "How much longer to our destination, driver? I think my legs are starting to numb."

"About half an hour more, miss."

"Thank you."

Johanneke looked out her window, watching the countryside go by. So, half an hour til I (hopefully) have a job again.

With some time to kill before the orientation, Saladin had gone down to the range, where weapon stations had been set up to showcase the kind of company-issue equipment 3rd Platoon would be using--and therefore the same equipment he would be tasked with servicing. He smiled when he saw that the chosen Assault rifles were AKM Assault rifles, or at least marginally-similar copies thereof. He had worked on such weapons ever since he was old enough to work as an apprentice in one of the many gun shops in his birthplace. It was a simple, reliable design, and when he learned that the design was used by just about every other country in the world, his respect for the Kalashnikov grew even more.

At another station, he found a Mosin-Nagant equipped with a 3.5x magnification scope. These were somewhat less common compared to the Enfield-based bolt-action rifles like the ones he had first copied as a child. As he worked the action, however, it was smoother than he had expected, and it seemed to be a quality product, so he sat down at that station and put two magazines' worth of ammunition downrange. While others were also trying out examples of issue weaponry, Saladin was engaging targets that were the furthest downrange, scoring first-shot center-of-mass hits at 900 meters, 100 meters past the established 800 meter effective range of 7.62x54R ammunition. It was a gift Saladin had, aside from his ability to be a fine gunsmith. As a child, he was often the best shot amongst all the village boys, and once, his elders had given him the moniker of 'Allah's hand', in reference to his ability to reach out to great distances with whatever weapon he had in his hands.

"Fookin' 'ell, I wish I shot like that back in the Police Service!"

A singsong voice behind him brought Saladin out of his memories, and as he opened the action of the Mosin and set it on the table, he turned around to see a tall, athletic blonde woman standing behind his location on the firing line, along with a few others who came to watch the spectacle of his otherwise-impossible shot placement. As Saladin had ceased firing, the others dispersed to check out other firing stations, some of them shaking their heads in disbelief.

"Thank you, uh..."

"Johanneke Rankin. Formerly of the South African Police Service." replied the blonde, offering her hand in greeting. "What's your name, shooter?"

"Saladin Al-Darra. I am the new gunsmith." Saladin replied, grasping Johanneke's hand, and immediately surprised by the grip in her rather firm handshake.

"So you're not a contractor, Saladin?" Johanneke asked.

"I must confess that I do not make much of a professional soldier. However, I will still be deploying with the West-Central Task Force as the unit armorer and gunsmith, so I will still be close to the hostilities."

"That's a right shame--I'd gladly have a shot as perfect as you watching my back any day."

"Well, I would not say my shooting is perfect... That was just self-indulgence, it is not my main area of expertise." Saladin replied modestly.

"Well, I hope we can be friends out in the bush, Saladin. I try to keep my weapons clean, but I always welcome any help." said Johanneke.

"Of course, Miss Rankin. Do not hesitate to visit me if you need any of your weapons serviced for any reason."

"Thanks. Take care, Saladin! It was a pleasure meeting you!"

Saladin waved goodbye to Johanneke before moving over to an AKM station. Picking up the weapon and working the action, he noticed that the charging handle felt sticky, perhaps even gritty as he pulled it back. And when he eased it forward, he was alarmed to discover the charging handle resting halfway down its raceway, immobilized, and it could only be prompted forward by working the action again and letting the charging mechanism fly forward, slamming into the chamber. Checking the weapon, he found that it was a Romanian-built PM md. 63 copy of the AKM, and when he opened the receiver and stripped the weapon to its parts, he frowned when he found bits of cosmoline dried and caked on surfaces of the moving parts. A sticky, gritty action was an inconvenience out on a range, but in the heat of battle, it could be a potential liability. With the weapon disassembled into its major parts, Saladin went about thoroughly cleaning off the cosmoline, disgusted that whoever placed this particular rifle on the range had failed to clean it thoroughly.

The scent of gun cleaning solvent, lube, and cordite clung to Saladin like a sort of industrial cologne even though he had thoroughly washed his hands and face. He was walking into the mess hall after having spent most of the day cooped up in the armory repairing and cleaning service weapons for those on-base. For the most part, his jobs were routine, usually doing slightly more thorough cleaning on at least a few dozen AKMs, maybe unsticking a few gritty Makarov slides, and doing a few tune-ups on a few of the more up-market weapons that had been turned into the armory, like a few H&K MP5s, Colt M4's, and even a few South African Vektor rifles.

Arguably the hardest part of his time in the armory was sorting out the weapons belonging to those who were now in the hospital as a result of the recent firefight the boss had mentioned. He could tell these apart from other jobs because the firearms in question were usually severely damaged and/or had dried blood caked on it. Working to repair these weapons told Saladin he had jumped in with both feet and he had to commit to his work no matter how much the damage on weapons that came in told him something serious had happened. Assuming a weapon's user would live to fight another day, Saladin had to make sure the operator didn't go back out into the bush without a weapon they could entrust their life to, which meant being able to have confidence when they got their service weapon back, and that would not happen with dried blood and mud and other detritus still clinging to the weapon. 30 primary weapons and sidearms were in need of repair, so he took them each one by one, stripped them down piece by piece, and cleaned them, thoroughly, replacing parts too far gone to be simply repaired, and then reassembled them before test-firing them and then cleaning them again. His meticulous attention to detail took up several hours of his time, and mealtime was the first time he'd been out of the armory all day.

Having picked out what seemed to be a more appetizing meal of Chicken and Yellow rice, Saladin looked for a table to sit down at. He didn't really know most of these people before him, and he wasn't willing to impose on anyone; therefore, an empty table would be ideal. Just then, however, a familiar and exuberant voice called out to him.

"Hey! Saladin, over here!"

Saladin scanned the mess hall before spotting the waving hand of the blonde who had complimented his shooting skills back in Maine. It took him a second to connect a name with the face, but he quickly recognized it was Johanneke calling him over, inviting him to sit down with her. He accepted the invitation, since sitting with someone he knew would be less awkward.

"Hello again, Miss Rankin." Saladin greeted as he sat down.

"Just call me Johanneke; 'Miss Rankin' makes me feel like a teacher or something. Anyway, so how was your first day out here? Close enough to the action for you?"

"It has certainly kept me busy. How was your job?"

"I had fun!" replied the Afrikaner with a grin. "I spent most of the day helping that adorable mechanic of ours, Lucinda."

"It took that long to unpack the Hilux?"

"Unpacking was easy, the hard part was bolting everything together--well, not really that hard, but there was only two of us once everything was unpacked. I stayed behind to help her bolt all the attachments on; she said she didn't need the help, but I figured she needed someone to hold that brushguard while she screwed it down with the rattle gun."

Johanneke then flexed her bicep. "Luckily, I've got the muscle for it." she added with another grin.

"Were you able to help elsewhere?" Saladin asked.

"Well, I've had medical training, but I don't trust it enough to help out at the hospital. Besides, Lucinda didn't kick me out, so I figured I might as well stay and help out. And it seems that the perimeter fixes have been taken well in hand."

"Ah."

"Looks like it's a good thing I wasn't at the hospital, too." Johanneke mused, looking at a particularly bloodstained contractor.

Falling asleep to the Crump! of mortar rounds and small-arms fire was a first for Johanneke, who managed to get a good night's sleep throughout the ordeal. After having sat through the briefing the next morning, Johanneke now prepared for a mission that would do something about the pesky opposition harassing their base. As she prepared her gear and weapons for battle, however, she was surprised to look up and see Saladin coming towards the picnic table where she was loading her RPK drum magazines.

"Saladin?" Johanneke asked as the gunsmith sat down and began filling UZI magazines. "What're you doing here?"

"I am preparing for the mission, Miss Johanneke." Saladin replied as he slid 9mm rounds into the first of several 32-round magazines.

"Drop the 'miss', but anyway, why are you going out on this mission, shouldn't you be in the armory?"

"After the briefing this morning, I felt I should participate, contribute to the force going out there."

"What was your reason?" Johanneke queried as she inserted another five rounds into her current drum magazine.

"It is as Mister Victor said-- it will allow us to operate without being killed the moment we step outside the base, and I feel I should contribute to making our lives a little easier. As I understand, Miss Lucinda is also participating, and she's just a driver and mechanic. I would be a coward, then, if I did not help out."

"Saladin, what will happen if you go down out there? We can't afford to lose you, mate! Killing others is no business for a gunsmith, regardless of how brilliant they are!"

"Johanneke, please calm down! I know you are worried about me, but I have to do this!" replied Saladin with a raised voice. "It is not like I am not capable of taking another person's life, but there are reasons why I am not a soldier..."

Johanneke paused, letting Saladin begin his story. "It was a few years ago, back at Bagram Airfield, when I was still not yet an adult. The base had come under attack, and before I knew what was happening, there was a man--he looked like he was a Taleban-- staring me down. I saw him brandish a blade as large as I have ever laid eyes on, and he let out a yell, and he started charging towards me. I was scared, I thought I would die if I did not do something quickly, and I saw a Kalash not far from me. The Taleban was almost upon me now, and I did not know if the weapon I had was loaded, I just pointed it at him and held down the trigger."

Saladin stopped, and Johanneke had to prompt him to continue. "Then what happened?"

"When I opened my eyes, the Kalash was empty, and I looked down to see that the Taleban was on the ground. If you saw what I had done to him, Johanneke, you would be horrified. My bullets did not just kill him, they transformed this man into a wretched creature that was barely recognizable as a human. There was so much blood, and spilled innards... I could not sleep properly for a few weeks after that... That is why I am not a soldier... killing someone up close like that, that was not something I will ever forget."

The pair was quiet for a few moments before Johanneke spoke again.

"Wow, Saladin, I didn't know you had ever killed another person... It was justified, of course, but that can't have been easy for you to cope with, and that makes me worried. Are you sure you'll be all right in this mission?"

"I will put my fears aside, Johanneke. I must, or I will fail you and everyone else greatly."

Johanneke snapped her filled drum magazines shut, before getting up to leave.

"I promised Lucinda she could call on me for any help, so I have to go check on her, Saladin. Just remember, if you don't feel you're ready to fight, you don't have to go out there."

Without waiting for a response from Saladin, Johanneke turned and left, heading for the garage, leaving Saladin alone with his thoughts and weapons and equipment.

A little while after her chat with Saladin, Johanneke arrived at the garage where she spent the previous day working with Luce. Setting her gear down near the entrance, she called out into the cavernous work area for the young mechanic.

"Lucinda? Lucinda, are you in here?"

"Uh, hi." Luce said, sounding rather strained. She was trying to shove one of the large wooden crates they had received the other day into the truck with little success.

"Having some trouble? Let me help you with that." Johanneke offered, going over to assist. Taking the brunt of the weight, she lifted and pushed the crate steadily, relieving Luce of her burden until the crate slid onto the bed of the Hilux.

"There we go. What was in that thing, anyway?" Johanneke asked, wiping her brow with her forearm.

"Thanks." Luce sighed in relief. "I think they said mortar shells?"

"Jesus, and they left you to load them all by yourself? Jerks." scoffed Johanneke. "Will they fit my 'Commando' mortar thingy?" she asked, thumbing towards the tube-like object fastened to her rucksack.

The mechanic shrugged. "It wasn't that much trouble... they go and shoot people. I hopefully don't, heh." She glanced over the weapon and shook her head. "I dunno. Not a weapons person."

"Saladin told me you're gonna be in on this one. I guess this is an 'All Hands' kind of deal, huh? You nervous?" Johanneke asked. "Will you need a gunner?"

"Hopefully not. I'll only be there if stuff goes really bad." Luce said thoughtfully, patting the machine gun that Farin recently helped her install. "It's reassuring that you volunteeered so quickly, though." She added cheerfully. The two loaded some three more crates of 60mm mortar shells, and then a few crates of assorted M43. Then they loaded the anti-tank grenades that Farin had explained to her.

"Do you think this stuff is really safe?"

"I certainly hope so. I mean, they look new, which is a plus." Johanneke commented, picking up one of the grenades carefully before placing it back into the crate. "Maybe just a few additional Flak Jackets between you and the bed will help, you never know..."

Johanneke then looked at the PKM up top. "As for the volunteering thing, I do mean it. There was a certain point in my career as a cop that had me leaning out the window of a Jo'Burg Highway Patrol Bimmer with an R4 while my partner and I were chasing some fookin' bastard carjacker. I'd like to think that therefore I'm qual'd for shooting from a moving vehicle with a certain degree of accuracy."

"Huh. That's kinda scary." Luce laughed nervously.

"Maybe to you." Johanneke replied, her expression taking on one of determination. "Personally, I took a certain sense of satisfaction from that part of my job. Going that fast with a rifle in hand, not much room for error, and a nice fat carjacker target to shoot at... It was all I could ask for in those days, and to this day, I have no special mercy for carjackers. Did anyone ever tell you why I despise them so much?"

The young mechanic had a guess as to why, but she shook her head anyway. "No, why?"

"I really started hating them when I was a teenager. One of those bastards held me and some friends at gunpoint while we were out shopping. I was just going to let him take the car, and that would have been it, but..." Johanneke trailed off, looking down.

Luce felt a chill at the idea. She had grown up in idyllic little Californian suburbs, where the worst possibility was a ticket. But from what Farin had said about South Africa, she could only imagine what sort of things could happen to the unprepared.

Johanneke took a breath before continuing. "But this was Johannesburg, and carjackers will go to any lengths to get what they want. So he shot my friend. She was Gila Epstein, an exchange student from Israel, about my age, and the only thing she was guilty of was being out shopping with me and my best friend, Marie. This bastard, this monster, Luce, he shot and killed her like it was nothing and threw her to the street. Right in front of me and Marie. It was too late to do anything else, we had to get out of the car, or we would've been dead, too. But I'll never forget how her eyes asked me why it had all happened. All I know is that Gila died that day because a carjacker wanted my BMW."

Johanneke took another breath before continuing. "Sorry I laid all that out on you, but, I kind of needed to get that all off my chest. That day is kind of what drove me to be a cop. After what happened to Gila, I figured I should do something about carjackers and their ilk. Kill them, arrest them, it was all the same to me for a long while. As far as I'm concerned now, whoever these assholes we're fighting are, they're just as bad, and I volunteered my experience so that someone has your back out there if you have to be out there with us. It's kind of the same reason I'm worried about Saladin going out there to help with this mission. He's a gunsmith and not a professional soldier, and I don't want him getting killed out there. That said, he's up for the mission, but that doesn't make me worry for his safety any less. That's why I'm worried about your safety too, Luce. If you have to go out there, don't hesitate to go find me. Don't go out there alone, losing any more friends would kill me inside."

Johanneke lifted the lid of the mortar crate open and scooped out an armful of extra rounds. "I'll be taking some of these; I didn't get a chance to load up earlier."

"Eh, boss, I figure this is probably inconvenient to tell you at this time, but I'm not so hot at aiming and firing a mortar accurately. I did a little bit back in Maine, but I'm still not entirely confident, sir." Johanneke confessed, lugging her mortar as she followed along.

"Christ, you say this now?" Victor chided, his voice just low enough to avoid eavesdropping. "Last thing we need is fragging our own guys with short shells."

"I can't help that they didn't teach me to fire mortars back in the service! Cops don't use mortars, sir! Look, I just need a little bit of guidance and some crash instruction, and I'll figure out the rest from there. If nothing else, I pick up on things really fast." Johanneke blurted with a nervous grin. "Please, I don't want to let you down."

The merc sighed, massaging his temples as he considered the situation. He keyed the radio mounted to his vest. "Farin. Get your arse back to staging area stat. Out."

"I guess Farin is taking my place?" Johanneke asked, setting down her mortar dejectedly.

"We don't have enough people to put Farin on rear duty, fortunately for you." He said, somewhat amused. "She'll get you up and running, but her help will be brief at most."


~~~~~

"Ok, lessee... dig the baseplate into the ground, get the bubble level centered..." Johanneke muttered as she set up the simplistic mortar she was assigned. With little experience firing the contraption, she lacked the confidence to know if it was even aimed correctly. After setting it up rather haphazardly, she stepped back and gingerly let it go, whereupon the mortar (thankfully unloaded) simply flopped into the dirt.

"Crap."

"Nice." Farin emerged from atop the berm and hopped down, skidding to a stop beside Johanneke. "I suppose Special Task Force types don't learn how to use tube arty, eh?" She was slightly surprised that Victor had given her this menial task, but then again, any mistake could be lethal in combat. Farin was actually somewhat curious about her fellow merc, coming from a similar region with a hell of a service record.

"They teach us how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, yes, but mortars? That would be handy right about now. Could I please have some help?" Johanneke asked, walking over to right the mortar again.

"First thing - unpack the bombs." She handed the other South African one of the cardboard tubes, taking one and removing the cap. "If you had an assistant gunner, they would remove the rounds before you fired them. Solo, unpack the rounds and pile them in a safe, dry place." She handed the sixty-milimeter shell to Johanneke and gestured at the mortar.

"We call this the 'Commando' mortar. It's a surplus sixty-mil with all the goodies removed, leaving it lightweight and handy. Hard as fuck to hit with, though. It has no bipod..." She planted the end into the ground, the same way Johanneke had, but unusually grasped the cloth wrap with her left hand. "The bubble gives you a range estimate. From here to the enemy, it's about eight hundred meters. Drop the rounds with your other hand and try to avoid the muzzle flash. You might want to stage on the berm to get line of sight on the enemy, since these tubes lack fine adustment and sights. That's about it."

"It's really that simple?" Johanneke said in wonderment. "Well, I suppose that shows how thick I am... Uh, Illumination round on signal, right?" she asked, glancing at the shell Farin had given her. "Is there anything else I need to know about the shells themselves?"

"The first thing is to never forget the fucking ear plugs. Your ears will bleed." Farin allowed herself a small smile as Johanneke cringed. "Long white shells are 'chute flares, the rounded ones with the green case are explosive. They'll fuck anything in a ten meter circle."

"Okay, good thing I still have these for some reason..." said Johanneke, reaching into her BDU pocket for a set of corded earplugs. "So I'm guessing this is the right shell to throw out first." she added, noting the shell in her hand was long and white, somewhat noticeable even in the considerable darkness. "Would there be any danger of mistaking these things once all the muzzle flash and explosions wash out any night vision I've got?"

"Illum is straight walled." Farin said somewhat tersely; though she didn't mean to be hostile, she still had work to do.

"Right, got it." Johanneke blurted, sensing that she should stop asking questions. Plugging her ears and suddenly finding everything else muffled, she took hold of the mortar tube by its cloth wrapping and propped it into place temporarily with a nearby rock and positioned the illumination shell on the ground next to the mortar, stabilization fins brushing lightly against her knee, but she held steady and waited for permission, glancing toward Victor.

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Saladin found a vantage point on a nearby hill lined with shrubs and bushes where he could view much of the village in front at a distance. After breaking up his outline by draping camouflage netting over his position, he set down his pack in front of him and laid his Mosin-Nagant on top of it, pulling out his binoculars to scan the area. Covers with slits had been placed over the lenses, so as not to give away one's position with light glare from the glass. He scanned the battlefield from right to left and then back. As he panned his view, he could make out a few positions of note inside the village ahead, his attention drawn to the gas station Victor had pointed out in the briefing. Some vaguely bright spark in the militia they were up against had given the forethought to put someone with a DsHK on the roof of the pumping area the two story building about a block down from the gas station also had machine gun nests in the windows, but they were smaller-caliber PKMs compared to the monster positioned atop the gas station. Figuring he should point them out, Saladin got on his radio.

"This is Saladin; be advised, I have spotted a Heavy Machine Gun position on the roof of the fuel station. Some meters down from it, there is a two-story building with two windows on separate levels, facing our direction; those have a PKM in each of those windows, over."

"You know what to do."

Johanneke nodded and picked up the illumination round, dropping it tail-first down the muzzle of her mortar tube, held by her other hand. In less than a second, the illumination round leapt out again with a great loud "DHOO!" as it flew into the night sky. Johanneke wondered where it went until the round suddenly performed its purpose and began burning brightly, lighting up the area. From there, she began alternating between the few illumination rounds she had left and the high explosive rounds as she tipped the muzzle forward ever so slightly with each shot as she began performing searching fire for the first time ever in her life. Once the illumination rounds were exhausted, she kept pouring down HE shells, settling into a rhythm of outbound shells roughly every 2 seconds. Her improvised tactics seemed to work for the time being as she swatched the HE shells one after the other impact in a strafing pattern until suddenly, a few had hit the gas station's underground tanks, sending it up in a fireball that lit up the village. With this action having exhausted her mortar rounds, Johanneke took her mortar and strapped it to her pack as she took up her RPK, checking to make sure there was a round in battery.

"Follow me, we're moving in." Victor announced to the novice support gunner. With that, the two set off to go involve themselves further in the ever-growing fray.

While tagging along with Victor, Johanneke occasionally engaged fleeing militia, dropping to prone and laying down bursts to a silent, rhythmic mantra of "Die, motherfucker, die." However, most engagements were one-sided, usually finishing off wounded militia and the like. Since Victor had been doing most of the shooting, Johanneke still had a substational amount of ammunition left, but she still made sure to top off her ammunition when the Hilux pulled in with spare ammo and anti-tank grenades. Grabbing a few of the grenades for herself, she noted that the gunner position in the Hilux was woefully unoccupied. Since Victor had gone off to set up the ambush, Johanneke climbed into the Hilux and took her place behind the PKM machine gun, charging it to make sure it was loaded.

"Johanneke?" Luce asked, looking up at the Afrikaner as she leaned out from the driver's side window.

"Yo, Luce."

"What are you doing here?"

"Didn't I tell you that I'd have your back as a gunner? I saw you roll in here by your lonesome, you didn't even have someone watching your back, and frankly, that kind of hacks me off that they left you to fend for yourself. I don't care that you were put in as safe a position as possible; unless you're a sniper, buddy systems work best. Besides, you might be needed for some hit-and-run on the returning convoy, and I'm sure the boss would rather have you driving than shooting. Leave the really violent bits to me, okay?"

Luce nodded, her expression still somewhat nervous, and Johanneke could see this.

"Don't worry, I'm sure we're not alone when we throw this ambush. I bet Saladin's found a good place to set up where he can see everything."

As it so happened, Saladin had since moved from his position on the hillside to the militia camp itself, where he entered one of the buildings and set up in the topmost floor, some ways back behind a window where he could see most of the small village, including a clear line of sight down to the main road that led in and out of the village.