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Still Standing	By : Saoirse Category: 1 through F > Black Hawk Down Views: 3174 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Black Hawk Down, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Still Standing
- 1
A/N: To my dear friend Chupasgrl, here is some overdue Hoot smut you’ve been
asking for. Bon appetit!

Disclaimer: Don't belong to me but Mark Bowden, Ridley Scott, and the almighty!

Still Standing
By Saoirse the Irish Colleen

She knew something was wrong since she couldn’t tell the difference between the traffic lights colors any more. About an hour ago she passed a ‘WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA’ road sign when she decided that stopping for a drink was her first priority. Driving around in circles exhausted more gas than she thought, so she counted how many blessings she had in reserve when she saw the glow Shell station’s rotating gold and red logo on the shoulder. She swiped her card at the unleaded pump and strained her eyes, trying to keep up with the quartz crystal black numerals whirring on the digital readout as it filled her tank. She collapsed dejectedly on the concrete front step of the mini-mart, her key ring jingling looped on her index finger as shruggruggled to rip the cellophane off the pack of Kools without dropping her platinum lighter into one of the filthy puddles that sprinkled the asphalt everywhere. Triumphantly lighting up, she took her first long pull in seven months. /That patch fix was all bullshit./

She was painfully aware of the kid squeegeeing her front window giving her sidelong looks. His red hair stuck out in all directions styled in what she assumed was a mullet. The kid must have been raised on the Skids because whoever did the cut was probably a barber college reject with a gluiffiiffing habit. “Hey.” It took the kid a full 30 seconds to comprehend that his sole patron made a comment, and not some critter grunting from the shrubs. “Hey!” The kid was stunned, looking as though a brick had hit him.

“Ma’am?” The cigarette drooped in her mouth. The kid’s long drawl made him look like Opie on acid. She removed the cig from her lips.

“Who do I have to fuck to get a drink around here?”

“Sorry?” Opie asked.

“I want a drink. Where do I get one?”e sce scratched his head with the squeegee’s handle. He reeked of cleaner, stale water, and Clearasil but it didn’t do a damn thing for him. The red blotches on his face were teeming with pus ready to explode.

“There are a couple places in town…” She rooted through the heavy white silk satchel on her wrist.

“Some names would be nice.”

“Can’t name ‘em offhand, I reckon.” It figures. She pulled out a tube of Pink Lightning and coated her lips.

“Not eone?one?” Her patience was thinning eitheither Opie didn’t catch on, or just didn’t care. He stood there still scratching his heith ith the squeegee.

“Well, there’s Bennigan’s…” He chucked the squeegee in a bucket, sloshing gray water on his black threadbare Converse sneakers. Pulling the nozzle out of her tank and replacing it on the pump, she tried to read the phosphorescent Budweiser clock but the shitty fluorescent light bulb was blocked by the sunbleached, nylon Old Glory swishing in the humid breeze. The fat, overdone yellow bow on the pole was sliced up by the weather and dingy white from exhaust fumes and rain. The Gulf War was over, why didn’t the manager just trash it? She slammed the Audi door behind her and revved up her engine.

“Where is it?”

“But ma’am-“

“Never mind, I’ll find it myself.” Opie latched both hands on her car door windowsill.

“It’s a Team bar!”

“Sports?” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m kinda used to that crap now,” she grumbled and bolted.
* *
* *

She lived long enough in the big city to know what a sports bar was, and this definitely wasn’t one. The few coherent eyes zeroing in on her said enough. She half expected to find the Confederate flag displayed somewhere and a mechanical bull in the middle of the sawdusty dance floor, but it wasn’t very polite to play into a stereotype. The lone TV above the bar was off; there was the muffled wail of Country Western coming from the jukebox and the occasional sizzle from the kitchen. A bicentennial flag and a 13-star colonial flag flanked the doorwbehibehind the bar was a banner that read ‘2nd Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group Airborne’. The flag spread out below it was one she wasn’t familiar with. Taking a few steps closer, she made out the writing on the insignia in the center of the green field: ‘UNITED STATES ARMY’. “What the fuck…?” She had been dropped into a Platoon outtake.
Behind the bar, J.T. dressed in the same grey shirt he wore since he opened the place, sleeves rolled to the elbows and jeans with an unevenly noosed lariat around his neck stood reading the paper. He looked up; his eyes froze at his new patron then went back to the article eyeing the phrases ‘misappropriation of funds’, ‘U.S. Army Special Operations Command’, ‘Congress’, and ‘cleaning house’. The click of heels and a barstool scraped the hardwood.

“You got coffee?” She asked.

“Nope.”

“You got Jack Daniels?” He smoothly produced the bottle from underneath banging it on the oak. His fist clamped around the neck, a huge silver Marine emblem ring glinted dully. “Can I get the bottle?” A twenty stuck out between her fingers. J.T. took the bill and slid her a shot glass, leaving her to her own devices. There were rings and dings from the vintage register, and he handed back her change. 98 cents, she dropped it into her satchel, jingling like a chain. Keith used to chain his 10-speed to the lamppost outside his apartment until he moved in, and then he dumped it in her hall. Now that she actually sat down to think about it, she spent the last year-and-a-half tripping over it every night coming home from work. Toasting her discovery she tossed back her first drink of the evening.

* * *

There were few inhabitants at this time of the hour; the religious rummies occupied a few booths in the back, sliding in and out of consciousness. One other woman who might of passed for the barkeep’s woman balanced on a barstool, leaned on the jukebox flipping through Glamour, her peroxide treated hair pulled up into ponytail that would make Barbra Eden flinch. She wore white go-go boots, a leather mini, and a leopard spot pattern camisole in clunky gold jewelry and caked on clownish makeup.

CRACK!

The billiard balls rolled every which way, one guy played a lonely game against himself inspected the green indecisive on his next play. He tipped up the brim of his Pirates ball cap on his mop of curly hair. At a table nearest to him was another guy furiously scribbling on a napkin, sipping his beer. /Odd place for a heat rash…/ she thought studying the red birthmark at the corner of his left eye. The pool player shuffled to the table to grab his beer when scribbler held up the napkin. The laugh he got sounded like sandpaper stroking wood.

“Impressive, no?” It was a caricature of a soldier in full gear, but in place of the pistol in the thigh holster was a hair dryer.

“You should get a job at that paper,” he set down his long neck, wiping the back of his hand on his mouth returning to his game.

“Ahh…” Two other men sat at another table, each taking turns throwing peanuts into a bowl at varied distances, some landed in the bowl, others on either the table or floor. It was a crude version of Tiddlywinks.

“I got this one.” Said the blonde flattop.

“Best two outta three!” His partner stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth imagining how a swollen eye would look on his pretty face.

“The chess board’s in the car.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” The blonde pushed back the chair on his boot heels and rose. Her eyes followed him out the door; certahe fhe felt a quicksilver sliver of drool at the corner of her mouth. /Nice legs. / Was it possible for a man to get his legs complimented? The guy was so tall, she could have sworn he stooped his big shoulders a bit to fit the doorframe. His friend with the black crew cut had toned arms that would send Bruce Lee back to the gym. However the gold band on his hand told her to keep any and all rated X suggestions to herself.

“Y’know, I can wait as long as you can.” A voice floated from somewhere in the back. Giving into her bladder’s needs she laboriously wiggled off the stool in search of the rest room. Tucked behind the pool tables were the ladies and gents, and it was there she found the owner of the voice. She purposely slowed her pace; on the payphone was a man in his mid to late 30’s whose upper body made a woman want to ride him until she was reduced to a puddle of goo. His long dirty blond hair was mussed from bunching his fingers in it, and the only ring she saw was an onyx on a thick gold band that dated back to antiquity.

‘Fuck you!’ His girlfriend was that angry in order for her to hear her over the phone.

“I’m not apologizing for what I did.”

‘It’s one of the few things you people have perfected over the years, isn’t it Jeff?’

“Look,” he took a deep calming breath, “I have a job to do.”

‘And so do I…’ It was a hassle to get into the stall, but her kidneys thanked her for it nonetheless. She was forced to dry her hands with toilet paper since there seemed to be a shortage of paper towels and the heat dryer was busted, honestly she didn’t know why she avoided wiping her hands on her clothes. When she left the bathroom, the guy was engaged in a heated confrontation with his girl, she gave no sign of caving since he was forced to pull the receiver from his ear a couple of inches on account of the verbal battering she doled out with no mercy. The pool game was abandoned, and the blonde set up the chess game with an expectant audience.

“Where is he?” The scribbler asked working on his next napkin masterpiece, a topless woman brandishing a cat o’ ninetails.

“Late, as usual,” toothpick replied. There was a crash and a slew of profanity, then Jeff stalked out pouting, took a chair spun it around backwards and plopped down. “Problem Jeffy?” The scribbler slowly hoisted up the napkin, this time the dominatrix was accompanied by a man chained up and blindfolded wearing a ball gag. There was an explosion of laughter and Jeff tore the napkin into bits.

“Blow me Griz!” The door swung open once more but she continued to pour her drinks.

“Why should Griz give you head?” She only bothered to turn around because of the thick-ass drawl. Georgian or Texan? He was as tall as the blonde with the chess set. The tan cargo shorts and stretched out white tee that read ‘Go F--- Yourself!’ did little to hide his athletic physique, he was olive complexioned and his short curly hair needed to be combed. It was amazing how he could see anything wearing red lensed Oakleys. There was something that irked her about this little club, save for the pool player everyone had three-day old stubble, looked haggard, and could form a formidable football team. They also wore dog tags. Now the extent of her military data went, as far as to say A Few Good Men was a kick-ass flick, but none looked like Army poster recruits. Her head began to hurt so she decided that it was probably best to concentrate on her drink. Their recent arrival pat down his pockets to look for another cigarette, when Griz nudged him. He made the motion as if to say ‘what?’ but looked in the direction of the bar where Griz was pointing. Soon they all were rapt with looking at the woman at the bar getting herself shitfaced in a big hurry.
/Now there’s something y’all don’t see everyday! / Before they could stop him, the one with the creative shirt pulled up next to her.

“Can I ask you a question?” She slowly faced him giving him her best evil eye, but he was unfazed. “This ain’t a church, so why’re you wearin’ a wedding dress?” He didn’t really expect an answer, so he just signaled the barkeep. “So what’s your name?” An icy Michelob and a packMMarlboros were placed in front of him

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Hoot.” He unwrapped the cigarettes and threw the plastic on the floor.

She snorted. “The fuck kind of name is that?” And refilled her glass.

“My nickname.”

“Can I get your real name?”
He put a cigarette between his teeth. “It’s Norman.” The woman paused holding her drink midair then burst into hyena giggles in the process spilling the liquor all over the bar. Two rosy spots sprouted on her cheeks and Hoot hoped it was the alcohol rather than her genuine reaction.

“What’s your name?” He raised his voice over the laughter striking a match to light up. She abruptly became quiet.

“Mandy.”

“Well, hi there Mandy. You got a ride?”

She grunted into her drink. “You’re probably a psycho murderer. Fuck off.” Mandy’s speech was slurring. Hoot smiled at the irony.

“Well maybe I am… and maybe I’m not.”

* * *

The bottle was on the carpet and empty, having done it himself thinking it was chivalrous to do so since she fucked herself up enough. Lying there he blew a trail of silver from his sixth smoke, more than he did even on deployment. He was forced to deposit Mandy into her backseat because the tulle skirt billowed out in jumbled layers; she flailed her arms so much he wondered if the halter bodice would hold up. He drove around looking for the first Motel 6 he could find then tossed her over his shoulder to their room. It was the dress that weighed he down; he’d encountered assorted females but this one he could honestly classify under ‘pixie’. Her ultra petite frame swam in the gown and he wondered if she had a height complex or wanted to masquerade as the Snow Queen on her- now defunct- wedding day. On her tiny feet were white strappy rhinestone pumps, they looked like they could tear into the bedclothes so he took them off, her black bob was just long enough to be swept up anchored by a large silver dragonfly encrusted with white and pink Austrian crystals. It looked somewhat on the expensive side so he put it on the lamp table.
Placing Mandy face down on the bed he grabbed the ice bucket and went out to find the machine, Hoot then made her drink several glasses of water and induced vomiting, careful not to spoil her gown. She rinsed her mouth out and he force-fed her Excedrin. All that in just under an hour, Hoot gained enough experience from his original infantry unit way back when. He thought about a few of the good friends he left behind and wondered what became of them during twilight moments like these. Mandy stirred.

“He wouldn’t have done this for me.” Her voice was rough from the regurgitation. Hoot crushed out the cigarette in the cracked plastic ashtray on the floor.

“Huh?” Mandy sat up playing with the folds of her skirt.

“My ex. He wouldn’t bother with me if he saw me like this.”

“Who was it?”

Was he psychic too? She had so many questions she knew Hoot would never answer. “My best friend, the Maid of Honor. How cliché, but then again, Keith always had simple tastes anyway.”

“His name sounds simple too.” They both laughed, but Mandy groaned feeling a wave of nausea churn her stomach. “Sorry.” She waved away his concern. “Gotta be careful of best friends sometimes.”

“Are those guys your best friends?”

“I consider them to be.” He shrugged. Although he frowned at his changing opinion of Jeff as of late. His latest conquest was putting him into a conflict of interests.

“You trust them?”

“Haven’t given me a reason not to… yet.” Mandy leaned down and placed a kiss on his ear, Hoot responded as she thought he might. “What was that for?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He propped himself on one elbow to work his fingers in her hair.

“You’re cute.” The giggles that came from her sounded like tinkling silver bells, a flush went through Mandy and despite what happened a dozen hours earlier she knew it was going to be a special Low Lowering her mouth to his, then gently pushed his head down to the lowest point of her throat and offered it to him. Hoot kissed her throat softly, dragging his calloused palms down the satin squeezing her breasts behind the constrictive material. It would be uncomfortable to do this on the bed so Mandy got up and walked around to his side, Hoot being a little apprehensive of her move he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. They were nearly eyelevel this way, and it would be much easier. Moving to her shoulder he kissed it, Hoot’s strong hands enfolding her, then embraced her as they traded tongues. Mandy reached behind her neck to undo the snap and Hoot stared as the two lengths of material limply draped down either side of her, he pulled down the almost invisible zipper on her side and waited for her to stop him. Mandy’s head lolled back, closing her eyes losing herself in the sensations that were assaulting her. She could feel Hoot’s greedy hands undoing clasps and freeing her of her outer layers, pulling the dress down. It looked as if she were floating on a cloud.

Mandy unceremoniously kicked the garment away, Hoot focused on her jiggling pert breasts and wondered why she was the only one naked. “Goddamn,” he stripped off the shirt and made quick work of his shorts. After tossing the thousand dollar dress into a corner she knew where it wouldn’t get dirty, Mandy looked back at Hoot and had to clap her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh. It was almost comical to see Hoot pulling off his Nike trainers with an exquisite erection bobbling around.
/Keith was simple in that department too. / Hoot extended a hand and pulled her into his lap, kissing her tenderly. He rolled on top of her, naturally. Feeling her smooth slim body rock against his, Mandy was surprised at the lack of hair he had, not that she preferred excessively hirsute men but the fine wisps on his defined pectorals were very nice. Hoot nuzzled her nipples making her laugh and shake from his coarse beard before feeding from them. He lapped at aureoles like candy; Mandy pushed herself into him to intensify the friction then found her legs parting to let him in, his weight warm and comforting. But where to put her feet? Behind his knees? On his hips? She settled for wrapping her legs around his back, then Hoot cleanly thrust in, her tight, creamy passage squeezing him, pulling him deeper into her. Her nails dug into his taut ass as he rocked into her, it was difficult for Mandy to find her rhythm but he eventually allowed her.

“Faster.” She tilted her hips and shrieked as his magnificent member caught her clitoris on the downstroke. He obeyed, but when she could stand it no longer Mandy’s cries became uneven and persistent as Hoot shoved her into the mattress until the thrashed beneath him her orgasm radiated through her sapping her of all energy. Hoot on the other hand was feeling left out until she slithered her hand underneath him. “Come for me, Norman…” She squeezed his balls roughly, the stunning pain making him groan viscerally, and spilled the spurts making him jump inside her with every surge.

* * *

Mandy maneuvered her Audi through town looking for a grocery store, humming along to the radio. Fayetteville welcomed her with the usual Southern hospitality; it was a shame that she had to be heading out. When she woke up two days ago in the motel she found herself alone with her room paid up for two days and marigolds on her pillow. She wasn’t upset at Hoot, it was good while it lasted, but not meant to last. What was that cliché about two ships passing in the night…? Her dress was neatly locked up in her suitcase and she donned a stonewashed denim skirt and her favorite AC/DC T-shirt. Finding what she was looking for, Mandy pulled up to a supermarket and went in looking to stock up on snacks. She grabbed a plastic red tote and trekked down aisle three with a skip in her step, the deli made her several types of sandwiches: a Hoagie with everything imaginable, turkey with romaine lettuce, smoked cheddar, tomatoes, mayo and mustard with bread and butter pickle chips on rye, two slices of warm pumpernickel were thick with ham and Swiss, mayo and iceberg lettuce. A six-pack of Dannon, orange juice, Bartel’s & James, sour cream and onion Pringles, a road map, and passing the candy aisle a couple of Mars bars. On a whim she scanned the ‘previously viewed’ VHS display and reached out for one with a picture of Chuck Norris hoisting a bazooka over his shoulder.

“He’s kinda cute,” she said and tossed it in with her booty. Waiting on line she opened up The Washington Post scanning for anything remotely interesting. She arranged her bags in the backseat and decided to take a breather. Perched on the hood of her car, Mandy munched on a Mars bar people watching, zoning out into her own little world when she heard something clank on the asphalt. A woman dashed by, red-faced and puffy-eyed tripping over her black penny loafers trying to mount the pavement. She had long light brown hair, part of it elegantly twisted up into a bun dressed in a navy blue and white pinstripe matching mini and vest skirt suit and white satin blouse. The woman dejectedly sat on a white concrete balustrade, one of many that connected chains to cordon off a grassy spot. Barreling around the corner came a black convertible with a couple of dings on the fender, and screeched to a halt on the curb in front of her. Behind the wheel was the man Mandy remembered as Jeff. Although she was the figurative doe caught in headlights, the woman didn’t look away from Jeff’s paternal-like glare.

“Lise!” He barked. “Will you cool off!”

“I most certainly will not, Jeff Edward Sanderson! I am not your fucking property, you son of a bitch!” Taking off the engine he emerged from his car and walked around the vehicle to her. “You not only deceived me, you stole legal public property, unscrupulously seduced me, and have caused disruption within my family!” She fired round after round and he stood tall, unbending.

“Lise, please understand I have an obligation here. You just wouldn’t understand!”

“Understand?” She hooted. “You’re truly something else Sanderson, I’ll give you that… and nothing else. I hope my uncle kills you! I want him to do it in front of me!” She took off with Jeff on her heels.

“Lise! Baby! Wait!” Mandy went to the spot on the asphalt where Lise threw something down. It glimmered in the sun, an intriguing looking gold pendant on a long chain. What was more was that a woman would wear one with a design that she considered masculine. A saber with a triangle whose legs didn’t join forming the topmost point, instead one jagged inward like a lightning bolt. Jeff obviously gave it to her; Mandy did the only thing she could, she hung it on his rearview mirror. The couple vanished behind a tall chain link fence; Lise pushed off his arm from her shoulders only to have it right back there. A sign next to the sentry read ‘WELCOME TO FORT BRAGG’. Running back to her car she reached in and searched for the video she purchased, just realizing she never bothered reading the title.

“The Delta Force.” She tossed the tape back into the bag with the newspaper and rested her chin on her folded hands atop the car door. Mandy had never seen a more beautiful morning, the clearest sky, the rich carpet of green swayed in the breeze, and wondered if there were such things as heroes.

THE END

Author’s Notes: First off I’d like to thank all my readers for their patience with my ongoing fic “Operators”. I live for your reviews and feedback. Secondly, there are a few things I’d like to point out with this little spin-off:

1) Fayetteville, NC is the actual location of Fort Bragg (SF), within Bragg is Delta HQ (dubbed “The Stockade” since it once was a jail for delinquent soldiers) hidden from the public eye via security gates, barbed wire, dogs, armed guards that will pump a round into any trespassers on sight, and a rose garden. This has been confirmed by two books: Delta Force: The U.S. Army’s Elite Counter Terrorist Unit by Col. Charlie A. Beckwith (ret.), founder and first commander of Delta and Inside Delta Force by CSM Eric L. Haney (ret.), founding member of Delta. You can be as liberal as I am, and not agree with everything they believe, but it’s good to stay informed and listen to the actual accounts of what goes on the frontlines.

2) Bennigan’s is an actual SF team bar in Fayetteville- NO CIVVIES! Dr. Anna Simons noted this in her book The Company They Keep: Life Inside the U.S. Special Forces. She is an anthropologist and the wife of a retired SF soldier she met during the conflict in Somalia (go figure!). It’s interesting to find out that military have select watering holes solely for them, in the case of the Navy SEALs, one bar, McP’s owned by former corpsman Greg McPartlin who worked with SEAL Team One in Vietnam is located in Coronado, CA where SEAL Team One is posted. He worked with Harry Humphries (one military advisor for BHD) and retired SEAL who operated with the infamous Richard Marcinko, the founder of SEAL Team Six, Delta’s amphibious CT counterpart they are said to work with on occasion.

3) The first cartoon that I mentioned was in Bowden’s book, commenting on the long hair a Delta operator must have in order to move about freely in the field on assignment.

4) The Delta Force (1986) was an action flick starring Chuck Norris and the late Lee Marvin (a retired Marine who is buried in Arlington) was based on an actual mission Delta participated in. It was pretty good, but the rockets on Norris’ motorcycle was a little over the top. The symbol I mention toward the end on Lise’s chain is the actual Delta Force insignia, though no operator in his right mind will have that patch sewn on his uniform (they don’t exist remember?).

5) Edward is Will Fichtner’s real middle name, and his Grandfather Theodore gave the onyx ring he is never without to him.

6) And finally, after much debate I’ll let you in on the secret of Jeff and Elise’s conflict. In Bowden’s book, he mentioned that when General Garrison took the position of Delta commando there was a scandal concerning the overspending on the well-equipped and well-funded CT unit. Lise was the reporter pressured into doing the story by her anti-Delta SF officer relatives since Congress really did want the unit cleaned out. Untilf caf came along, and well, you could figure out what he did!

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Still Standing