He looked around. “You guys done good. That’s all of my part in this little showcase. I think the j.g. has something to say.”
Ed DeWitt stood, pulled the Bull Pup off his back, and held it in front of him with both hands. A bulge on his left forearm showed where the bandage was that covered his in-and-out bullet wound.
“We’re back from a quick mission. Sometimes I like them. They give us some action, let us get shot at, and then we’re home where we can take it easy for a while. The trouble is, we never know how long a little while will be. Right now we have no orders. I don’t even know of any hot spots around the world where we might be called to participate.
“So, we’re going back to basics. In a combat situation, we must be sharp mentally and physically. Not much we can do to change our mental ability other than to stay focused and stay alert during a mission. On the physical side we can always get better. You can do a hundred push-ups? Fine, how about five hundred? You can run a mile in six minutes? Fine, can you do it in five minutes flat? Top mile runners can do the mile now under four minutes.
“Starting tomorrow we’ll have light packs and weapons on a seven-minutes-to-the-mile run. We do ten miles. In the afternoon we will go to the ups schedule: pull-ups, sit-ups, and push-ups. The man who wins each category gets a free case of Bud.”
That brought a cheer.
“For now we’re out here for live firing. I want Senior Chief Sadler and Howard to run some rounds through on the Bull Pup, and the EAR. The commander will work with the rest of you on firing yours and the rest of the weapons for all-around familiarity. We don’t use the fifty much anymore. Our Bull Pups have replaced it with gratifying results. We’ll move up a hundred yards so we’re five hundred from the old live oak snag over there, and spread out for firing.”
Senior Chief Sadler had fired his Bull Pup on the mission, but never quite understood the range and damage the weapon was capable of. Now, in the daylight, he fired at the snag, and marveled at the way the rounds either hit close to it or did an airburst with the laser sighting.
“You were right, j.g., this damn weapon will revolutionize the ground soldier’s job. He won’t have to wait for mortars to come up, or for artillery to wipe out something, and he can shoot over the fucking reverse slope of hills, into bunkers and in back of buildings. I love this gun!”
Howard took his turn with the Bull Pup. He winced at the kick the 20mm round gave off. “Hey, like a shotgun,” he said. Then he watched the burst over the snag and laughed. “Keriest in a fucking bucket, look at that thing. I want to buy one of these to go duck hunting with. Hell, have my limit with the first flight.”
They both fired the EAR weapon, and asked about the range.
“We’re not sure, from two hundred to three hundred yards. Howard, would you walk out there four hundred yards and see if we can knock you off your feet?”
Howard stood automatically, then frowned. “You pullin’ my leg, j.g. Don’t think I’ll take that walk.”
They all laughed. “We’ve used it at two hundred yards, but I can’t remember anything much longer than that,” DeWitt said. “They must be working on a more powerful model that will reach out longer and have more of a punch, and a larger battery in the stock.”
Murdock worked the men on the weapons until he was sure that each man had fired all the types of weapons they had brought. It was essential that every man could fire effectively every rifle and machine gun that they used. If the machine gunner went down, another man had to be as good with it as the first man was, and grab it and use it at once.
By 1600 they were finished. It took them another half hour to police up the brass from the firing. They dumped the shell casings in their packs and then began the hike back to the truck. They moved mostly downhill and Sadler led them, sometimes running, sometimes walking fast. They were sweating and tired when they came to the truck after the six-mile trip. The men climbed on board at once, eager to get back to the base and a good meal later on.
Sadler looked at the Navy man who was their driver for the day. He had stayed with the truck and eaten his MRE. He had dumped the envelopes and papers and packaging in a circle around where he had sat for his lunch in the shade of the truck.
“Ready to go, Senior Chief?” the driver asked.
“Sailor, you have a name?” Sadler asked.
“Yeah, Senior Chief, I’m Rawlings.”
“Rawlings, I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
“No way, Chief. Not a chance. It was an MRE.”
“I should make you eat the wrappings, Rawlings. Now down on your knees and pick up every spot of paper and plastic you see for ten yards and cram it all into your pockets. Don’t you ever leave a litter like that again on a SEALs trip.”
Rawlings’s eyes went wide; then he saw the Senior Chief wasn’t kidding, and he dropped to his knees and began picking up the green plastic wrappings and the envelopes and wrappings from the MRE.
The SEALs in the truck burst out cheering. Sadler went around the truck and crawled into the cab. Murdock slid in beside him.
“Good play, Senior Chief,” he said, and the two men slapped hands in a low five.
“It’s a start, Skipper. Now we have to keep these guys in tip-top condition. That’s going to take some work.”
4
Back at the platoon equipment room, Bill Bradford changed into his civvies and hurried across the quarterdeck and out to the parking lot. His four-year-old Honda Civic started on the first try, and he buzzed into Coronado and across the bridge into San Diego. Down on India Street, he parked in the alley, and walked into a storefront that had a sign over the door that said: “San Diego’s Artist Colony.”
The front held a five-wall design with paintings hung on every available space. Each wall had a person’s name on it. Bradford went to the side and looked at his display. His paintings. All marines: some fishing boats at the embarcadero, some with breakers smashing into the rocks down at Sunset Cliffs. There were eight oils there, all marked with prices from $65 to $245. All were framed and ready to hang.
“Hey, man, you made it,” a man said. He wore faded jeans and a paint-smudged white T-shirt. He held a pallet and two brushes.
“Yeah, Rollo. Late workday. Anybody else here?”
“Yeah, Xenia rolled in a half hour ago. She’s in a funk of some kind. Went into her room upstairs and banged the door. Don’t see why she’s got her tit in a wringer. She’s selling more than anybody.”
Bradford chuckled. “She’s the sensitive type.”
A woman walked in wearing a see-through blouse, no bra, and a short skirt. She was barefoot, and her dark hair had been piled on top of her head, probably to get it out of the way of the fresh paint. “Who is the sensitive type? Rollo here? That’s painful to think about.”
“I meant you, Xenia; is there something bugging you?” Bradford asked.
“Yeah, life, death, art, salesmen, the percentage they take, every fucking thing is bothering me.”
Bradford grinned. “Hey, same old Xenia. Everything about the same. How is that portrait coming along?”
“It sucks, but I can probably sell it. Isn’t this wine-and-cheese night? Where’s the damn food and drink?”
“Jeffrey’s turn to bring it tonight,” Rollo said. “I told him two bottles would be enough. We never have more than half a dozen people stop by.”
“Mostly our friends for the free wine,” Xenia said. She shrugged. “Hell, they told me this wouldn’t be easy when I started. It still ain’t.” She motioned to Bradford. “You started yet, or can you take a look at my non-progress?”