God knows we'd been from the mountains to the sea. More like from sea to sea and over the mountains and . . . Just work with me here. We were very happy to be going home.
The day the C-17s landed to fly us home, I really had a hard time believing it. I mean, sure, I'd worked on cutting the orders, had done the arrangements, had "integrated" with the Air Force. But "The World"? Going Home?
Well, it wasn't the home we'd left. But, yeah. We were going home.
We landed at a base outside of London. They drove us by bus to Heathrow. There were food lines. It was snowing. I mean like a bitch. London's weather was never great but it ran to rain, not snow. Not in early December, 2019. Still doesn't run to rain. Might not for a couple of centuries. But before the chill, the Brits were famous for umbrellas not those fur hats they all wear now.
The Skynet guys were already home. They promised that they'd get the last episode of Centurions right. Actually, there were two last episodes. "Crusade" about taking Istanbul and "Centurion" about me. Murdoch, I found out later, told his senior producers that he would "break their fingers" if they thought about touching the "creative control" of the guys who had been producing Centurions all along. The same kid from Bravo had written both scripts. He's now working for ABC. And they don't get why he wears a Sith t-shirt all the time.
There was a ceremony at Heathrow. People turned out, despite the depression and despite the fucking snow. They cheered. It was weird. I hoped it was over after that. We got on a 747 where we rattled around like peas. The stewardesses (sorry, flight attendants) treated us like they wanted to have our fucking babies. I think a couple of the guys got "relieved" on the flight home. It was weird.
There was a ticker-tape parade in New York. Okay, from what we were getting from the Skynews guys we intellectually understood that we were celebrities. Emotionally, it took a while to kick in. We were a group of worn-out grunts who were just looking forward to a real fucking barracks and quarters. Someplace with working heat and a mess hall. Maybe some chow that resembled real food and not MREs or goat fucking stew. For those of us who still had family and someplace to go, maybe a little leave. We knew that even those of us who were "over time" were going to be staying in. We were in "for the duration" according to our current orders.
We were just grunts.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
A fucking ticker-tape parade. In what amounted to a blizzard. You could barely sort out the confetti and shit from the snow. We had to march. It was worse than the fucking Taurus. And people were lining the God damned street in that fucking blizzard cheering us.
We were hooked up with "Public Information Officers." I now know where they put the guys who cannot survive in Protocol Office which is where they send the guys who are fuck-ups in line units. There is no greater Fobbit than a PIO asshole.
I had essentially been overseeing a damned docu-drama every week, more or less, and now I had some shit for brains telling me how we were going to "present the Army in the best possible light."
Eat. Me.
Things were more or less under control from NYC to DC. They put us on a train that stopped at every stop along the way. We had to make speeches. The troops were paraded in the fucking snow. Guys gave interviews. There were contests to meet people's "favorite Centurion."
It had not been my intention. I swear to fucking God. I wish I'd never thought of that stupid fucking idea.
I got put on talk shows. I tried to stay terse. I'm Minnesotan. It's our job. I got angry at some of the lame-brain questions though and ate a few assholes.
People fucking Ate It Up with a spoon.
People called me Centurion.
Look, my name is Bandit Six. You can call me Bandit if you really outrank me or I really like you. Otherwise it's Bandit Six. Whatever my rank Bandit Six if we're being formal. Mr. Bandit Six when I finally took off the uniform.
Do. Not. Call. Me. Centurion.
And I don't like Cincinnatus much, either.
It went on and on and fucking on. They put us on tour. We had to kiss babies.
I couldn't tell if we were rock-stars or politicians or fucking what.
All we wanted to do was grab a fucking snack and get back to fucking work. Maybe some leave for fuck's sake.
But the worst part was, we were back in commo.
Hell, I could have picked up the phone any time and called Bob. But if I did it, then the troops should get to do it. Before I did. Rank has certain privileges but it doesn't work that way. And there was only so much commo. So we were sort of in information black-out from home.
So I didn't find out until I borrowed the PIO asshole's cell phone that I didn't really have a home to go to.
The farms, all of them, had been "nationalized."
Bob was still, sort of, running two. He had some dipshit in DC telling him what he was supposed to do. The guy was an "agronomy expert" from the USDA. Actually, he was an "environmental agronomy" expert from the USDA.
The guy was in DC trying to tell a farmer in Minnesota, who has twenty times his experience and a hundred times his savvy, what to do in the middle of the worst natural disaster in history. Especially for farmers.
Like a lot of people, Bob was tuning as much as he could out. But he had to go through that guy to get supplies. Seeds, basically, since, you know, herbicides and pesticides and all those other 'cides were icky.
And plowing has to be this way and planting has to be that way and none of it was anything resembling what was actually going on. The guy was getting his "forecasts" from hand-picked "climatologists" in the department of the USGS that was the leading study farm for "global warming" and they were still using the same fucking models.
Bob was only directly running two of the farms. The other seven had been turned over to "hand-picked" experts in "environmental agronomy." Tofu-eaters. They gave my farms to tofu-eaters. It was Lamoille County all over again. It was the Zimbabwe Plan, the Cambodia Option. It was nationwide famine in the making.
It was going to make 2020 and 2021 suck like a gigantic vacuum. Even without an ice age.
I went back to shucking and jiving.
I was an officer of the United States Military. Legally and ethically I could not say anything contrary to the policies, military or domestic, of the Commander in Bitch. Said so right on the package. I know that there have been officers and enlisted who have ignored this doctrine. The officers should be stripped of rank and thrown out. The enlisted should be made privates and sent to somewhere like, oh, Minot. Or Iran.
I slipped up one time. I'd just gotten some particularly bad news from Bob about the state of one of my farms. (The Hanska property, as it happens, where the dipshits had let the fucking well-pump not only freeze but just about self-destruct. And then called Bob to come over and "get their water running.")
So right after that I'm talking to some reporters about stories I've already had to tell a dozen times and clearly not as "up" as Bandit Six normally is and one of them asks me why and I lay out something like "bad news at home."