Summary: Everyone's writing fic about the Rangers- Eversman, Grimes, Blackburn... Well, the D-boys need some lovin', too! Yeah! So let's give it up for everyone's favorite Delta, (not to mention the character played by the scrumptous Eric Bana) Norm "Hoot" Gibson! Hoot needs some lovin'! So, here's a little ditty I came up with to give the Deltas (especially Hoot) a little respect!

Explination: Hoot, from what I gathered, isn't real. He is really just four guys who were there rolled into one for the movie. (According to the "On the Set" feature on the DVD... which is also where I discovered his first name "Norm".) So, to me he's semi-fictional. This makes me feel better, because I like to shy away from Real Person Stories. I'll read them, but I tend to not write them. Since the movie really didn't get into the lives of the soldiers very much, and since Hoot was semi-fictional I took a lot of liberties when writing about him. (I think I should dedicate one chapter just to my "take" on Hoot and how I came up with a lot of this stuff I write about him.)

Disclaimer: Hoot doesn't belong to me, but basically everything I write about him (except the fact that he's a Delta) is mine or my idea. I don't intend to steal the ideas of the very talented writers who concocted the BHD script. Alrighty then. Questions, comments, concerns, and MILD flames are welcome! (Constructive criticism is very much appreciated but praise will earn you a cookie!)


By: RiversButterfly
Chapter One: Such Were The Days


It was a bright, humid October day in Africa. One could almost taste the heat in the air as it mixed with the stench of death and the dust of the surrounding desert. Invisible waves of piercing heat rose from the runways of the abandoned, run-down airport that served as the US Military's headquarters in Mogadishu, Somalia. The thick air hung forbiddingly over the pockets and handfuls of men that lingered outside, stealing away in the scarce shade. The heat snaked its way into the large, open hangers where the men slept, ate, and gathered most of their days here in the thick shadow.

A man in a flight suit and helmet carrying what appeared to be a flashlight with an orange cone attached to the light's end moved to the side of one of the helicopter pads, waving his arms in a way to signify an "All Clear" signal. A large, Black Hawk helicopter took off and flew in the direction of the nearby war-torn city to make it's daily rounds.

Delta Sergeant First Class Norm Gibson ("Hoot" to his friends and family) shifted in his spot on the floor of the large 'copter and hung his legs over the open side, getting in a better position to shoot his rifle if needed. A sweltering, thick orange haze hung in the air in this early afternoon, as if a thick cloud of dust was kicked up as far as the eye could see, and just refused to settle. Hoot reached up, letting go of his rifle with one hand to wipe the beading sweat off his brow before it dripped down into his eyes.

As he reached up to his head to pull down his sunglasses, the helicopter suddenly, and without warning, dipped down low, diving its nose toward the ground for a few seconds, only to come back up again and recover its altitude as an Anti-Aircraft missile went whizzing overhead. Hoot immediately let go of his Oakleys and grabbed a handle on the inside of the aircraft with his free hand, catching himself incase the chopper dipped enough to cause him to go sliding out the open sides.

Thankfully, it didn't, and he made a mental note to strap himself in from now on. The sunglasses, however, hit the floor of the helicopter and bounced out the side, falling to a nice, soft landing on the African sand.

Hoot quickly regained himself and glanced at the other two Deltas that sat in the belly of the Black Hawk with him. They all shared a similar, emotionless look, listening to the pilot as he radioed Headquarters for permission to fire, while searching the ground for the person or persons who had fired upon them.

A small handful of Somalians were seen running away from the site across a massive spans of sand toward a large white building that definitely had seen some better days.

"Permission to fire?" one of the men asked, squinting through the viewer on his rifle and aiming at a running Somalian who was holding a bazooka on his shoulder.

"Negative. General Garrison says we're too close to the No Fly Zone to fire safely and without question of breaching UN agreements." The co-pilot called back to the men.

The three Deltas exchanged another glance before lowering their guns, going back to watching the activity below them as they continued on their routine patrol. They had been ordered to sit on their hands more than once.

Hoot leaned back against the metal wall and continued to chomp on his gum. Returning to his previous activities before the little incident, he reached back up to his head with his free hand, grabbing for his Oakleys. Nothing. He raised an eyebrow, patting the top of his head as he glanced around the inside of the Black Hawk.

"I think they fell out, Hoot." the Delta sitting across from him called over the roar of the chopper blades, noticing that he was looking for something.

"Aw, shit, man. Those were my favorite pair, too!" Hoot said in his slight southern drawl. He sighed and leaned his head back. "That ain't fair."

"Ah, get over it." the pilot called over his shoulder, joining the conversation. "Those were cheap knock-offs, Hoot. I got an extra pair of Oakleys back at the hanger if ya want 'em."

Hoot chuckled and toyed with the safety of his gun, flipping it on and off repeatedly. It had come to be some sort of variation of Russian Roulette for him, but he didn't shoot. It was more like a mindless action he did to pass the time. A nervous, impulsive action.

The helicopter turned in it's flight path and headed home.

And such were the days spent in Mogadishu.


So... what do you guys think? Shall I continue? Is it good? Bad? Ugly? I know it's getting off to a slow start, but I have some good ideas in mind. Please please please, review!