Anna was going with us. That’s what I learned from Aada on our final night in Cuiaba. This was a bad idea. No amount of neo-progressive gibberish could change basic biology.
The female frame is not built for war. Neither is the male for that matter but the female is really not built for war. We were going to war. We were going to war against weakness, parasites, heat stroke, and possible smugglers and unfriendly natives.
Though she hovered somewhere around six feet and was athletic. There were physical limitations that no amount of gym ratting could surmount. Sure maybe if she was a UFC fighter. But she wasn’t. In fact, most women that are in the armed forces are far from being Ronda Rousey. Anna wasn’t in the armed forces. She was a leggy academic and nearsighted to boot. God, it was so stupid.
Women’s martial struggles were not due to a lack of dedication but due to the fact that women like Rhonda are outliers. And I doubt that even she could sustain the weight of a combat load. Women that served in Afghanistan had suffered skeletal fractures for precisely this reason.
The officer corps always wanted to cover their ass and promote their careers. They went along with whatever corporate shit dropped in their pond. Pulling it out would cause ripples. So men died and women got hurt. If I hadn’t been transferred to a highly specialized op like PLATO I’d have been consulting for international shipping years ago. By the time I’d enlisted in 08 we were already a petticoat flotilla and the only thing that kept my Scotch candor from sinking my career was my ability to find dirt on my superiors. The latter skill actually being the reason Thornton had plucked me into spooky land. My nickname was bloodhound.
Nature doesn’t care about politics. And the nature that I was afraid of wasn’t just physiological. A dozen men and one attractive woman is not good for morale. What the hell was Cook thinking?
I mean he was a professor but this wasn’t fucking Berkley. He didn’t know that I knew. And I knew for a fact that Lobo didn’t know.
I leaned on the bar and studied my reflection as it was blurred by the frosting. Should I tell Lobo? Would Lobo be able to do anything? If I did wouldn’t this just cause more in group strife? A strife arguably more dangerous than a cute geekess in a platoon of libidinous baboons trekking through hell?
Jesus fucking christ….
Part I – Kentucky Door
1.1 (Intro) The Sketch of Sam Monroe
1.2 The Cajun Prayer
Part II – The Wizard’s Nod
Help a Hipster