"The transport blew up Sir."
Long legs crossed the makeshift "room" and arms and hands windmilled papers and photos and flattened life jackets sent as part of desert survival all over the space. Hands found neck, neck and body to sandbag wall. Feet off the ground. No time to choke. Faces livid purple. A knee to the groin. Running away.
"You're (i)fired(i)!!!!!!!!!" This broke the silent hours of the night like a screamer/missile.
"It was some sort of old school apparatus."
Face slumped, worn soft by the out-rage.
"One group told us it was to tow the ta, transport. Like a donut on top. A donut on a stick. And a chain threaded through moved it, but it had some sort of radar in it, so, it, (i)yawn(i), jostled the front line on the screens the guys use. Then they slammed it around. TBIs. We got some out before it blew. Into bits. Rough shape. Casualties outnumber survivors today."
"We don't lose. We don't give up. And we don't lose. Not ever." The man had finished putting on a special jumpsuit. "Is this the file?" No answer. "Take all of them. The files. They are coming. (i)Go.(i)"
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