Battle Ready

J. Ardian Lee


Guard duty. It was just past sunset, and the edge was gone from the heat of the day, leaving the warm scents of live oak, grasses and earth. Private Deal stood at her post, a sharp ear turned not to the perimeter but rather toward the bivouac tents. The moon laid silver across the landscape, but here among the trees was near complete darkness. Her pulse thudded, for she knew the plan was risky. Here in the heart of Texas, Daryl Deal was flirting with danger.

Finally there was a tiny sound of rustling leaves behind her, and she turned. It was Peter, his shadow distinct among the trees. "Where have you been? You told me 2130 hours." She ran her hands over the sergeant's breast pockets as he held her by the waist and guided her to a spot between two trees. They were already out of sight of the rest of their unit, but it was good to have more line-of-sight obstacles. They leaned their rifles against a thick, gnarled oak, dark shapes against the shadowed tree.

"Sorry, unavoidable," was all he said, then she found his mouth with hers and kissed him with all she had.

"Oh, Peter." There was little time to waste. The watch would change soon and some other soldier would expect to occupy this spot. Peter was very late. Daryl's fingers went to unbutton his shirt. His went to the buttons of her fatigue shirt. Maintaining lip-lock was probably not the most time-effective strategy for clothing removal, but she couldn't bear to let go. They sank to the thick, dry grass at the foot of the tree. He pressed himself to her, hard. Well-named, he was, yes indeed. A low moan rose to the back of her throat.

Her fatigue shirt open, Peter slipped his hand under her skivvy shirt to reach the clasp of her bra. She waited for it to snap open.

And waited.

"Dang," he said as he tugged. Her torso twisted and air heaved from her with each pull. "How does this thing release?"

"It's a little complicated. Push down at the left, twist, and then . . ."

He grunted, then rolled her over a bit so he could untuck both shirts and see. "What in the world . . . ?"

Peter drew up the shirts to expose the bra cups underneath. "What is this?"

Her chin pressed to the wad of cotton he held as she tried to see. "They issued it yesterday. They called it a 'battle bra.' It's supposed to be a specially designed bra just for the army."

"I thought that was a Canadian thing." He picked around the edges of the cup.

She shook her head. "I think ours are a little different." She knocked her knuckles against the olive drab cup and it gave a hard thud of cotton over metal. "I mean, that's steel under there."

Peter knocked on her breast, too. "Oh. I thought that was you. Lemme see this thing." He picked at the edges of the cotton-upholstered support device, then squeezed the cup. "No wonder they're huge." He poked the embroidered rose between her breasts.

"Don't—"

There was a click, and a hiss as smoke shot from under Daryl's armpits. They waved and coughed, but soon they were surrounded by an oily mist. "Smoke screen," she gagged, trying not to cough too loudly.

He choked, "Sounds perfectly useful if you can get the bra off to leave it behind. Whose bright idea was this?"

"Well, you know the Pentagon." The smoke drifted around them, and Daryl hoped nobody in camp would smell it. With any luck, everyone but the other guards would be asleep by now.

As the smoke cleared, Peter sighed and slipped his arms around her again. "Do you think it's shot its wad now?" The smile returned to his voice, and he settled his hips against hers. Dead leaves crunched beneath them and a clump of grass pressed against her back.

"I hope so." She leaned up on an elbow and pressed her mouth to his, sucking on his lower lip. Forget the bra, she wanted out of her pants, and him out of his. With deft fingers she unbuckled his belt and pulled open his fly.

But apparently Peter saw a challenge and rose to it. His hand went beneath her shirt again to the bra clasp. "Roll over and let me get this thing undone." She obliged and turned onto her side to let him fiddle with the clasp. He grunted and tugged and twisted and yanked, and with the final yank there was another click.

"Yikes!" Flame shot out the tip of each cup and sent up the grass in front of her. Peter jerked back his hand, and it stopped. They both whipped their shirts off to smother the burning grass, and quickly stopped the fire from spreading.

Once safe again, they sat back to catch their wind. "That was close," she panted. Small, round charred spots now graced the tips of each breast.

"That was . . . weird." Nevertheless, as he watched her chest heave, the light of lust returned to his eyes. He crawled to her and onto her, and eased her back onto the grass with a tongue deep in her mouth. He pressed himself against her, hard, and reached for her belt. She spread her knees so he could settle between her thighs, and once the belt and zipper were loose he slipped his hand down the back of her pants to ease them off. When he looked down at her chest again, a cheerful smile lit his face. "Oh, here. The clasp is in front." As he spoke he reached for her bra again.

"NO!"

Another click, and a calm woman's voice emanated from the steel undergarment. "Warning. This unit's self-destruct sequence has been activated. You have thirty seconds to enter the abort code. Warning . . ."

Peter uttered an incoherent noise, and Daryl plundered her brain for the code. "Left, no, right strap, center, left strap, right strap, left." As she spoke, she touched the pressure pads in each spot. The voice then stopped.

The sergeant, face pale, stood to button his shirt, tuck it in, and secure his fly and belt. "I think I'd better get out of here before the next watch comes."

"Peter . . ."

"Gotta go." He then picked up his rifle and disappeared into the darkness.

Daryl sighed and restored her clothing. Her shirt had a hole burned in it, which she would have to explain to the lieutenant in the morning. She sighed again, adjusted her bra straps, and wondered what this thing was supposed to protect her against, anyway.