Countdown: M Day (11 page)

“Speaking of which,” Reilly said, looking up, “the fucker is dead asleep again. Goddamn, miserable, useless … .”

Reilly strode off, in the direction of the private.

The next kick was not gentle. “Get up, shitbird!”

Gilbert writhed from the blow. “I can’t, sir; I’m sick.”

Reilly’s voice grew very gentle then. He squatted beside the private and, voice full of seeming sympathy and concern, said, “Oh, you’re sick are you? Well then, we’ll just have to take care of you.”

Standing once again, Reilly shouted out. “Sergeant Coffee!”

Back at the machine gun position, Coffee stood to attention. “Sir!”

“Private Gilbert here says he’s sick. See to him, would you?”

Coffee’s voice was full of anticipation as he answered, “Sirrr!”

Grabbing two big medics, his aid bag, and a poncho, Coffee and party began to trot for the “sick” private. About the time they were halfway there, Gilbert suddenly remembered the Sergeant Coffee Method of dealing with malingerers.

“Sir, “um”, I’m feeling better.”

“Nonsense, Private. You’re ill. SERGEANT COFFEE!”

“SIRRR!”

“Hurry, Sergeant. I think Gilbert’s delirious.”

“Sirrr …”

“
I’m not sick!” the private insisted. “I’m not sick!”

And then Coffee and his two assistants were there. The medics picked Gilbert up bodily, one hand on each of his wrists and ankles. Meanwhile, Coffee flapped the poncho out onto the ground. The medics slammed the cook down. Hard.

Then they sat on him while Coffee withdrew from his aid bag an intravenous needle so big and so crude that rumor was he’d been bequeathed a special supply of the things by his great-grandfather, presumably a medic in the First World War.

He made sure Gilbert could see the needle.

“I’M NOT SICK! Please …oh, please, I’m not sick,” the private begged.

“Damn, this is serious, Sergeant Coffee,” the lieutenant said. “Better hurry.”

“Sirrr …”

To Gilbert, Coffee whispered, “This is really going to hurt you a lot more than me.”

Then he stuck him. The private shrieked. “Oh, God, no …please …I’m not SICK!”

“Dammit, sir, I missed,” said Coffee.

Reilly smiled broadly. “Dammit, Sergeant Coffee, you missed. Well …train to standard, not to time. Stick the malingering son of a bitch again.”

“YeeaARRRGHGH! I’m not sick!”

“Dammit, sir, I missed again.”

“Train to standard …”

“ …not to time.”

“Aiaiaiaiai!”

Fourteen stickings later, with blood flowing across the poncho’s plastic surface and gathering in the low spots, a weeping, quivering private begging to be allowed to go back to duty, Coffee looked up at Reilly as much as to ask, “You think he’s had enough?”

Reilly nodded, then squatted yet again. “Are you sure, Private, that you’re not so sick you can’t do you duty?”

“Between sobs, Gilbert answered, “I’m”—sniff—“sure”—sniff—“sir …” sniff …“Please …Puhleeze don’t stick me anymore.”

Reilly lifted his chin at the sergeant, who gave one last—this time properly done—jab, raising a final howl of pain.

   *   *   *   

Joseph had tears rolling down his face. “Dammit, Sergeant Coffee, you missed. Well …train to standard, not to time. Stick the malingering son of a bitch again.’ Oh,
God
, that’s funny.”

“Absolutely true, Scott, every bit of it.”

“And neither you nor Coffee got court-martialed?”

“Scott, with the ignorant or the stupid you can get away with anything you act like you can get away with. Since we acted like we could, Gilbert just assumed.”

“Shit …you
were
a bastard.”

“Eh?” Reilly shrugged. “I’m a lot more even tempered than I used to be, but I’m still a bastard.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

—Richard Lovelace,

“
To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars
”

Quarters 212, Glen Fiddich Housing Area, Guyana

“Ayanna, honey, I’m home,” Terry Welch called from the front door to the one story bungalow.

From the kitchen, carrying a mixing spoon and voicing a delighted squeal, pattered a very tall, very slender, very dark woman with amazingly large and liquid brown eyes. Ayanna hadn’t seen her husband in the three weeks he’d been in the jungle with 1/5 Marines. This, she considered, was all too long a separation. And the occasional flights she served on the regiment’s “executive” aircraft didn’t do much to relieve the boredom.

She didn’t mind the stink. And the grease paint on his face didn’t deter her for a moment in covering it with kisses as she melted against him. If Terry wasn’t her god, he had been—in a very real sense—her savior. What was a little stink compared to that? Less still some faded camouflage paint.

“I missed you,” she said, once the formalities were completed. Her English had gotten markedly better in the last four years since the regiment, in the person of Welch, had liberated her from slavery.

“Honey, you have no idea,” he replied, then pressed her to himself in case she misunderstood. She took his breath away. Indeed, rather than becoming less in his eyes, she’d grown with the years.

“You bathe first,” she insisted. “I love you, nasty stink and all, but …better you bathe. Then eat; you too skinny.
Then
make love. Or anything you want.”

“I won’t argue with those orders,” Welch answered. “But I’ll be leaving in two days and …”

That changed priorities. “Screw stink,” she said, definitively, taking his hand to lead him off . “I turn off stove. We make love now. I wash sheets later.”

When the regiment had been in the process of building the camps and their accompanying dependent housing, they’d had an advantage more long established armed forces could never have had. It was a highly temporary advantage, to be sure, since people would move and would die. Still, in the process of building housing, they’d allowed the slated occupants to pay for any of a number of custom features at their own expense.

Given the—to say the least—
rigorous
life the regiment offered, especially considering that the bulk of them were quite getting on in years, the very most popular custom modification to civil housing had been large, one-or-two person, whirlpool baths.

In one of those—a two-person job with padded footrests; white acrylic, and steaming—with the sound of the washing machine droning distantly on the other side of the wall, Welch lounged while the water jets massages away not only an impressive degree of funk but also the little—and not so little—aches and pains that accompanied any military service that was worth having or doing.

Unlike most of the regiment’s cadre, aged and crotchety types that they were, Terry was young enough not to actually need the tub. Normally. Still, it had advantages.

Sighing contentedly and closing his eyes, Terry never noticed, over the sound of washer and water jet, when his woman padded in on quiet, bare feet. She bore a light dinner—Horn of Africa finger foods, really—on a tray. Rather, he didn’t notice until he smelled the food. Then it was: “Ahhh …
tibs
. Yummy.”

Ayanna didn’t pass Terry the food immediately. Instead, she set it down on a small folding towel bench just out of his reach. Then she turned her back away from him and, undoing a couple of buttons, let her dress slide off her shoulders to gather in a swirl at the floor. Only then did she pick up the tray and, still careful to keep her back away from him, step nimbly into the tub.

“After make love,” she said, “I stink, too. I join you.”

She keeps her back from me because the pattern of thin scars from the beatings she’s received embarrass her. I wish she could identify what village she got them in, before she was sold off to the village I liberated her from. I’d destroy it and every free man in it to punish the bastard who did that.

If Ayanna couldn’t read his mind, she did a damned good imitation of being able to. “I not embarrassed. Just not want remind you, or me, about past life and time. Forget. Nothing to be done now. Besides, bastard-motherfucker-piece-of-shit not know any better.”

“It’s still on my to-do list, love,” Welch answered. “I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get to it.”

She shook her head. “Just forget. Help me forget.”

He sighed. “All right; I’ll try.”
No, I won’t. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to get to it. But I’ll feel a whole
lot
better when the men who hurt and abused you are six feet under …and preferably still alive while we fill in the holes.

Wineperu, Guyana

There was a ferry that connected the west bank of the Essequibo River with Rockstone. For any number of reasons, the regiment was loath to use it. Instead, Terry, one team, a portion of his company headquarters, and three Eland drivers from Cazz’s battalion would take LCM’s from the naval squadron’s small base at Wineperu, down the Essequibo to the sea, then east to Georgetown. From there, some would fly to other major airports in the region, while others would take the long drive down Brazil 401 and Brazil 174 to Manaus, thence to spread out to another half dozen airports, while still others would be taking a regimental Pilatus P-6, marked “AirVenture,” to Port of Spain, in Trinidad. All but the Eland crew would spread out in twos and threes from there before taking flights, eventually, to Manila. They were going unarmed, although their principle had promised to have a package of suitable small arms and other ancillary equipment to them within a couple of days of arrival in the Philippines. Field uniforms and equipment would come on the ship, currently the other freighter suitable for assault landings, the MV
Richard Bland
.

In all, if the flight schedules worked out, they’d be assembled in Manila within roughly ninety-six hours.

The LCM’s couldn’t be disguised, though their cargoes could. They were crowded, despite the small load of personnel, with two Eland armored cars, in one case, and one plus a Land Rover, in the other. The top of the Land Rover was there to be seen—for anybody with either night vision equipment or the eyesight of a wolf—but all three Elands had been covered with tarps, with boxes and bits of lumber between vehicles and canvas to hide the shape of the things. Terry’s men and their limited personal baggage, were loosely piled in, on, and around those.

“We’re loaded, Skipper,” the senior of the two chiefs of the boats said.

Terry nodded. “Take us out.”

Here on the river the sweet smell of the jungle, half flowers and half decay, was strong enough to be noticed even by men who spent most of their time in the jungle. This was especially true as the landing craft kept as far in toward the banks, and under the protective umbrella of the trees there, as prudence permitted. Once, at least, the boats passed under some red howler monkeys, whose caterwauling announced the boats’ presence, even as the monkeys pelted the crews and passengers with feces.

At a mere seven knots, rather less than top speed due to the light available, the towns—Hipaia, Monkey Jump, Saint Mary’s—passed by slowly to port and starboard, often with no more to mark them than a dim candle light shining through an unscreened window. Only Bartica looked civilized as they passed it, showing street lights and the occasional auto. The men slept or stared into the jungle or the water as the mood took them. Most slept.

Terry did not sleep; there’d be altogether too much time for that on his flight to Manila.

For all his nonchalance in the meeting, and his apparent enthusiasm for the mission, Terry had his doubts.

Sure, if I can find the guy, the force we’re bringing is enough to free him, given the quality of the opposition. But finding him? That’s going to be a bitch, a pure bitch, despite Stauer’s permission to use any means of persuasion that might be useful.

Assuming I have the stomach for that, of course, which I’m not sure I do
He thought briefly of Ayanna’s former owners and amended,
At least, I’m not sure I do for this. I could make exceptions.

He’d only been separated from his woman for a few hours, and already he missed her. That feeling would only grow, he knew, at the days passed and the miles lengthened.

Never had anybody really devoted to me before. I like it. No, that’s not honest. I need it, and her. Wish I could be sure it’s really love on her part, rather than just gratitude for her liberation. Then again, if it isn’t love, she puts on a hell of a simulation.

For just a moment Terry laughed at himself.
If someone had told me, ten or fifteen years ago, that I’d be in thrall to a tall, skinny, more or less black girl from the Third World, I’d have laughed in their faces.

Then again, ten or fifteen years ago who would have believed that the world would be in the shape it’s in? Who would have believed that the
only
forces available—employable, anyway—to defend civilization would be private? Who would have believed …

Georgetown, Guyana

Meh believe to hear de sound of landin’ craf’, strainin’ again de tide,
thought Mr. Drake.

Probably the best way to characterize the customs inspector, Drake, was as a friend and retainer of the regiment. The “friend” part had been a little iffy. Then Drake’s daughter, Elizabeth, had married the senior noncom of the engineer company of the Fifth Combat Support Battalion, Victor Babcock-Moore, a Jamaican émigré to the United Kingdom, thence a sapper with the Royal Army, and thence to the regiment with his captain, Gary Trim. Following the wedding, though, and eager to make his sole child’s life a happy one, Drake had become a true friend.

Dat de regimen’ punish dem arrogant motherfuckers from Suriname no hurt any, either.
Drake considered some rumors floating around the capital as well.
And, all t’ings considered, it be good dey here if t’ings blow up again. We ain’t nevah quite got rid dem red muthafuckers used to run dis place.

The “retainer” part was,
And, well, my retiremen’ fund done pretty damned good from helping dese boys out. Used to do some better, of course, before they became all legal and such. Still, every little bit help.

Drake was of indeterminate race, which is to say of pretty much every ethnic group in Guyana. If he’d bothered to trace it, he’d have found among his ancestry green-eyed Irish and blond Scots, black slaves and brown indentured servants, round eyed folk and others with yellow folds narrowing their eyes, and more than a couple of reds …of both varieties. His own skin was brown and weathered, though that was as much a function of his job as his genetics.

He was up rather earlier than usual, and had only managed to catch a little cat nap between seeing that the patrol boat that had come down a bit earlier was stashed under cover and heading out again to meet the landing craft.

The regiment had given Drake a set of night vision goggles long since. He’d asked for a rifle, too, once, and they’d given him that. The rifle he kept hidden in the small house he shared with nobody anymore, unless Elizabeth brought the children down. For the goggles, even when he had to work at night, he usually didn’t wear them. He found the things beastly uncomfortable in Guyana’s muggy clime.

He had the goggles around his neck now, though, hanging by their head straps. Keeping one hand on the wheelhouse for steadiness, he used the other to pull the goggles to his eyes. Scanning left and right he caught first one ramp, standing almost upright above the tide, and then the other. He rapped knuckles on the wooden wheelhouse and ordered his pilot to set a course and speed to intercept the boats.

Wish meh be a younger man,
thought Drake.
Wouldn’t mind being able to go where dese folks go and doin’ what dey do. Nothin’ much excitin’ evah happen here. Course, lot o’ dem, dey older’n me. But different, somehow.

Drake normally thought in the local patois but, between his daughter’s nagging, his son-in-law’s example, and frequent close contact with the regiment, generally, over the last four years he’d learned to slough off the local lingo at need and speak something fairly close to the Queen’s English.