The SitRep usually summarizes operations in the college football theater. This week, due to a complete breakdown of communications on the battlefield, there is only this recording, left in the form of a voicemail from the front. We are efforting a recovery mission to assess what can only be estimated as damage of a catastrophic nature to all involved. Until new information is ascertained:
[MESSAGE RECEIVED: 00:02, 11/20/2011. TRANSCRIPTION COMPLETED 00:42, 11/20/2011]
[Male voice. Name, rank, and location unknown]
I didn't think it would be a big deal. None of us did. The targets seemed easy. Just a routine weekend. Routine missions. Nothing much happening. Easy-peezy, my officer said.
We nodded like we knew what we were doing. Idiots always do.
Thursday came and went without incident. Then Friday came. We all knew Captain Weeden was mortal, but dying because of misfires? From him? It seemed like madness, but nothing good happens in the dark in Iowa, ever.
We didn't know it would end in flames. When things seem normal, you'll do anything to convince your brain into keeping it that way. Furman leading Florida for half the game? Just a blip. Samford and Georgia Southern troubling Auburn and Alabama like they actually had guns and bullets and things? Little weird, but weird things happened. Cincinnati accidentally blowing themselves up? Big East units did that all the time, man.
Then it started.
Clemson died. All of them. We didn't even know NC State was alive, much less carrying flamethrowers. We didn't know Boston College was alive, either, but they took more than their share of blood and tears out of Notre Dame's ranks.
Darkness fell. I started to lose track of things. I can only think of things I thought I saw.
- I think I saw Tennessee winning a football game in the SEC. (No, really.)
- I saw General Miles take four knees in a row in a field full of dead Rebels. (He's mad. Completely mad.)
- I think I saw General Kelly almost best his opponent, but then pull the pin from a grenade and forget how much time he really had. No man should have to see that, but I did. War is hell.
- I saw Colonel Jimbo Fisher die...twice.
- I saw Admiral Stoops agree on a retreat, and then call a timeout to reload. He was dead minutes later. People spoke of a man named Griffin who could throw grenades into men's shirt pockets. They shook when they talked about him, and regarded him as some kind of god.
Now...now there are no certainties. I don't know who is left alive. There's bodies all over the place, and smoke and chaos and little more. Only Generalissimo Miles stands. For some reason, when everything becomes madness, he grows more assured and confident. This does not mean it is not madness. It only means there are those who thrive on that madness, feed off of it, and grow stronger from the disintegration of the minds around them.
I fear Generalissimo Miles is this man. And if he is to fall?
Oh, the horror. The horror...
[TRANSMISSION ENDS WITH SILENCE]