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Recovery Ranch
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Recovery Ranch
by CB Potts
Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2009 by CB Potts
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2009
NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser
only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email,
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violation of International copyright law and subjects the
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overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are
erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to
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This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.
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Recovery Ranch
by CB Potts
CONTENTS
* * * *
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Recovery Ranch
by CB Potts
Part One
Timmy Halleck was the usual machine gunner, but he'd
come up sick as a dog that day. Lucky bastard, and he'd tell
you that, despite the three-inch scar right across his gut.
At first, they'd thought the mess hall grub hadn't gone
down too well—that happened sometimes, especially with
new guys, and this was Halleck's first tour. As the night had
worn on, and his groans had turned first to tears and then to
outright sobs, it was clear that wasn't the case. Something
more was going on. The medic had come by, poked his
fingers knuckle-deep into Timmy's gut, provoking the type of
scream you wouldn't think a testicle-bearing being would be
capable of generating.
"Soldier, you got a gall bladder in there?"
"Sir," Halleck panted. "I don't know, sir."
"Well, if you do, boy, you won't for long." The medic had
rumbled a few words into his radio. "You're gonna go home
from the sand box a few ounces lighter than when you
arrived."
And that's how Adam wound up for the first time ever in
the machine gunner's position, atop the troop carrier,
surrounded on three sides by khaki-painted metal walls about
two feet too short for comfort. In front of him, the heavy,
black mass of the .50 caliber machine gun, awkward to
maneuver but more than enough, Sarge had assured him, to
make the rag heads put their dicks in the dirt and start
praying something fierce.
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Recovery Ranch
by CB Potts
It wasn't much comfort, actually, but considering the
environment, Adam took what he could from it.
It just wasn't setting up to be a good day. The electricity,
long promised to return this very week, had failed to make an
appearance. Those locals who had been friendly found their
patience wearing thin. Tolerance already uncomfortably near
the breaking point had been taxed further by the demolition
of the neighborhood's only working well—the fact that
insurgent forces had been directly behind the destruction had
done next to nothing to minimize resentment toward US
forces.
Not when it was the women who had to walk a mile or
more now for water, carrying heavy, plastic jugs back through
the shattered remains of their neighborhood each and every
day.
Add to that the fact that the old school building,
theoretically reclaimed for the good guys, was rumored to be
the latest, greatest place to hang out if you wanted to put
together a few IEDs, just to pass the time.
Orders had come down from on high to go check out the
veracity of that particular rumor, and should it prove true,
round up the troublemakers and restore some version of
order.
That same order could be easily restored, Adam thought, if
the brass would just get off their asses and get the power
back on. There was no reason for this neighborhood to be
out—two streets over, they'd had electricity for weeks now.
That led to a lot of resentment: resentment that could be
seen in the shiny brown eyes of the boys that lined every
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