Chapter 5: Radio Man

Still buried within a sea of vegetation, we continued our movement while strictly maintaining noise and light discipline, giving the march that familiar, almost unnatural silence.

Putting aside what had just happened between me and Ashton, Lieutenant Bulgers had already briefed all of us on our current position after studying the map. According to him, we had landed far too deep past the enemy line, at least fourteen kilometers off the objective. Yes, fourteen kilometers. That far.

Lieutenant Bulgers realized his mistake, so he told us we needed to adjust our route slightly east from now on. That meant there was a chance we would pass near the spot where I had almost died earlier, but he decided we would circle around it instead, mentioning the risk that another patrol might have already discovered the two bodies he left behind.

Honestly, it did not sound entirely convincing to me. It felt more like Lieutenant Bulgers simply did not want me to pass through that place again.

Anyway there were many factors that could have caused such a deviation, but the most significant one was clear. The pilots of the D-74 transport aircraft had been too tense while flying. Altitude and speed play a crucial role in a jump, and if even one of those is off, it directly affects the drop. What happened to us was proof of that.

"Those goddamn pilots… they only had one job."

Earlier, Pat had cursed them out after hearing how far we were missed our target. But could we really blame them? Considering they had no choice but to maintain their speed and altitude while the enemy kept flooding the sky with flak, anyone would think twice in their position. No one wants to turn themselves into an easy target.

Even though we had landed far off course, the sound of air traffic was still clearly audible. Through the gaps in the dense canopy above, I could still catch flashes of relentless flak bursts, explosions that never seemed to tire, working nonstop like overdriven war machines.

We might have reached the ground, but up there, the rest of our division was still fighting, pushing through the resistance thrown at them by the Varexil forces below.

We had taken off from the airfield on Lulana Island at around 23:00. We were neither the first wave nor the last. It would take another two to three hours for all the main waves to be deployed, meaning the stream of aircraft dropping paratroopers would continue for a while. And that was something we had to take advantage of, while the enemy’s attention remained fixed on the skies.

As for us, we were moving in a tactical column formation, maintaining enough spacing to stay connected while adapting to the tight, suffocating terrain.

At the very front, taking the greatest risk, was Pat. He acted as the scout for the formation. No one forced him into that role, he volunteered for it.

Right behind him was Lieutenant Bulgers. From that position, he could keep a clear view ahead, and if Pat made any mistake in navigation, he could correct it immediately.

Following him was Ashton, holding the third position. It seemed he was serious about this whole “personal bodyguard” thing, because I was now walking directly behind him. From here, I could clearly see the pack strapped around his waist.

Naturally, the rear position was held by Scarface. He carried a Sekhen submachine gun, infamous for its reliability, though its heavy weight was the price one had to pay, but judging from his build, that did not seem to be a problem for him. If anything went wrong at the front, he would be the one providing covering fire for a retreat.

However, when I glanced back at him, I could feel his displeasure toward me. A few times, he let out quiet scoffs, and I could hear something under his breath.

“Fucking leech…”

A slur meant for people like me, Sustainer.

Suddenly, Pat’s right hand shot up high, clenched into a tight fist in the air, the signal to halt.

In an instant, the entire column froze. Bulgers lowered his stance, Ashton immediately shifted his body in front of me, and Scarface behind us immediately angled his Sekhen toward our ten o’clock. The forest, once filled with the quiet chorus of insects, now pressed against the ears with suffocating silence.

Then suddenly we heard something.

Ting. Ting. Crak.

A faint metallic clink, followed by a subtle static-like scraping sound. It did not belong to the forest. It was mechanical, coming from behind the massive roots of a giant oak tree about ten meters ahead of Pat’s position.

Bulgers signaled Pat to move forward slowly. With movements barely making a sound, Pat slipped through the vegetation, while the rest is kept their weapons trained toward the source. My heart pounded, imagining the barrel of a Varexil rifle already waiting in the dark.

But the tension snapped when Pat suddenly lowered his weapon and straightened up, his shoulders dropping in relief. He turned to us and gestured for us to come closer.

As I stepped forward and took cover behind the last line of bushes, the sight before us was completely unexpected.

There, leaning against the trunk of a large tree, sat an Arken soldier in a disheveled uniform. His helmet had been removed and left carelessly on the damp ground. Resting on his lap was an SCR-300 field radio, which he was repeatedly hitting with his boot.

“Dust!” Pat called out the identification code once more.

“Ashes!”

After hearing the correct response, we revealed ourselves from the bushes. But strangely, even after the exchange, the man still raised his pistol and aimed it straight at us.

“That is unnecessary, Private. We already gave the code,” Lieutenant Bulgers said, his tone firm but controlled.

Seeing our uniforms and hearing the same language, the man finally lowered his weapon and rested it against his thigh.

“You never know how easily intel leaks. For all I know, you could be Vrets in disguise,” the radio operator said as he pushed himself up and started walking toward us.

By the way, “Vrets” is our little nickname for those oh-so-glorious Varexil soldiers. It makes it easier for us to refer to them in conversation, a shorthand wrapped in quiet mockery.

“What are you doing? Don’t you realize that clanking of yours could wake Big Ear from his sleep?” Pat asked, seasoning his words with sarcasm. “Big Ear” being our affectionate title for the Varexil Emperor.

“Don’t blame me, blame him,” the radio operator replied as he's crouching together right in front of us, pointing back at the radio lying on the ground. His boots were still off. “My instructor told me to treat this radio like it’s my own child. If anything happens to it, my head’s getting blown off.”

“Treat it well? From where I’m standing, you’re abusing it,” Pat shot back.

“Hey, skinny guy, this is love. I’m just copying my father’s parenting style.”

A quiet wave of laughter spread among us at that bit of dark humor. This guy was absurdly cheerful, even by Pat’s standards. For a moment, we almost forgot that we were dozens of kilometers deep behind enemy lines. Even Lieutenant Bulgers let out a faint laugh, though he still occasionally reminded us to keep our voices down.

“By the way, about that code earlier, Varexilians can’t pronounce ‘Dust’ properly. They always end up saying ‘Dusten,’” Ashton chimed in, somehow dragging an already-dead topic back to life. Still, his point was valid.

“Really? I thought the code was chosen by some eccentric high command just because it sounded cool.”

Look who’s talking, someone equally eccentric, completely unfazed by the situation.

“Wasn’t that covered in theory class?” Ashton frowned.

“I slept through all of it.”

Woah… this guy is something else. I honestly wonder how he even passed as a radio operator, a role that is supposed to be critical. If all our radio personnel are like this, then we are completely screwed.

“…how did you even pass as a radio operator?”

Oh! Thank you, Ashton, for asking exactly what was on my mind.

“Study the art of conversation, kid. That is how you become a reliable radio guy.”

“You mean the art of bullshitting?”

“Hey, don’t call it like that. By the grace of Goddess Zildria! Just look at yourself, your face and your body don’t even match. You look like a clay doll made by a five-year-old.”

Ashton’s eyebrow twitched when he heard that jab. It seemed this guy had no filter at all, just saying whatever crossed his mind without hesitation. Honestly… maybe that's why he actually suited his role?

“Besides—”

The radio guy was about to say something, but he suddenly stopped when his eyes met mine. They widened slightly, like he had just spotted an alien standing right in front of him.

“By Zildria’s grace! You’ve got a leech in your unit? Damn, you people are lucky…”

From the way he said it, I honestly could not tell whether he was praising my existence or insulting it.

“You’re talking like I’m some kind of rare animal,” I said, speaking to him for the first time.

“Hey, don’t pin that on me. And yeah, where I come from down south, jade’s easier to find than your kind.” he explained, as if that justified everything. “Don’t judge me, don’t judge me. I don’t agree with what my people did.”

“I didn’t say anything…”

“Don’t lie. I can see it in your eyes.”

Maybe he was referring to the southerners and something they had done in the past, something darker tied to people like me. I had not read the full details back in the library, but from what I knew, it sounded a lot like the witch hunts in Europe.

“Just a nickname, yeah? Call me Caspian for now. Or Cas, if you think we’re close enough to share chocolate.”

"Elise."

“Alright, Ginger.”

Even though I had already told him my real name, he casually gave me another nickname. Maybe he had noticed my red hair braided down to my shoulders, but honestly, I did not mind it too much. It was still better than being called a leech.

Lieutenant Bulgers straightened up, his eyes locking onto the darkness beyond our small circle. The faint smile that had briefly touched his face vanished without a trace, replaced by the hardened expression of an officer switching back into combat mode.

“Introductions end here,” Lieutenant Bulgers said, his voice low but carrying firm authority. He glanced at his watch, then looked at Caspian. “Private Caspian, put your boots and helm back on. Now.”

Caspian, who had looked like a street performer just moments ago, moved immediately. No complaints, no jokes. He knew exactly when to drop the act. As he slipped his boots back on with quick, practiced motions, he kept his ears open for the next order.

“We’ve already spent three minutes here. That’s enough to steady yourselves after the drop. Three minutes is three minutes too long to stay static without a secured perimeter,” Lieutenant Bulgers continued, gesturing for Pat to return to his role as scout. “Pat, check the route to the northeast. We need to move away from this drop zone before a Vrets patrol picks up the trail from that broken radio.”

Lieutenant Bulgers then swept his gaze across all of us, making sure our focus snapped back into place. “Save the laughter for base. Right now, mouths shut, eyes open. Caspian, you’re in the middle, right in front of Elise. Move.”

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. In seconds, the group that had almost forgotten they were standing on the edge of death became a silent war machine again. Lieutenant Bulgers did not let us drift. He gave us just enough time to breathe, then pulled the leash tight before discipline could slip.