"Speaking of having a sense of humor and getting shot," said Chin as he entered the bridge, "Skipper, have you come down to look at the patrol boat? We've just about got the hull and superstructure fixed, despite the four hundred thousand screws involved, a good portion of which had to be removed and reseated. But, and it's a big but, we're stuck until we know what kind of armament you're planning on mounting."
Cruz scowled again. Kosciusko waved his hand dismissively. "The Chinese have a pretty good idea of what we're about, Mike. They just don't know where." Turning to Chin, Ed said, "We don't know yet what kind of armament we're putting on. Oh, sure, machine guns and such don't matter, fifty caliber, sixty, or even 20mm; those the mounts can take. But the main gun is the question. Our . . . supplier . . . is still working on something suitable."
"It shouldn't be that big a problem, Skipper," Chin said. "It took a 40mm Bofors, once."
Kosciusko sighed. There been a long series of e-mails between himself, Harry Gordon, Stauer, and Victor, none satisfactorily resolved. "If we had a 40mm Bofors that would be fine. We don't and our supplier can't get one. He's offered us the turret, basket, and a frame cut from a BMP-3F. Unfortunately, the 100mm main gun on that has twice the recoil force of the 40mm Bofors that the boat used to mount. Might rip the deck right off. Might split the hull. He can also get us a BMP-2 turret except there's no navalized version and the thing would rust away before our eyes. At the very least the electronics couldn't take the salt air and spray.
"It's a problem. We've also been offered a Nudelman 37mm, which the deck could take . . . if we had a mount. But we don't; it's an aircraft gun. Same story with the 30mm GAST gun-you know, that dual contra-recoiling fucker? No mount and no time to develop and build one. And the tail of an Ilyushin 76 would be a hard fit."
Chin had a sudden vision of a patrol boat sprouting an airplane's tail at the bow and laughed aloud. "Well we've got to have a decision soon, Skipper. My men and women are about done until we know what kind of gun goes forward. If we delay the repairs much longer then we might not be ready in time."
Kosciusko nodded. "I know. What do you suggest?"
Chin, though a sailor, had been a member of the People's Liberation Army Navy. Thus, he was more up to speed on ground systems than most sailors would have been. "Take the BMP-3F turret. We don't, after all, absolutely have to use the main gun. It's still got the 30mm cannon and the missiles. And if we have to use the main gun, probably just the once, it would only be in life or death circumstances. In that case, who cares about the boat?"
"I think he's right, Ed," Cruz said.
Kosciusko thought about it, thought about the pressing time schedule, and said, "All right. I'll send the requisition to Victor and Gordo, and tell Stauer. He left the decision up to us, anyway, but he might like to know."
"I'll need precise dimensions on that turret," Chin said, just before turning to leave. "With those, I can do the necessary mods even before we get it."
At the ladder leading down, Chin turned around again. "I started on patrol boats, you know, Skipper. I commanded a P-6 before they gave mine away to Tanzania. Love the things."
Kosciusko raised one eyebrow, thinking, Note to Stauer . . .
D-80, Maintenance Area-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil
"I love it when a plan comes together," Stauer said, watching the turret of an Eland as it was gently lowered down onto the body under the supervision of the two South Africans, Viljoen and Dumisani. Reilly likewise watched, one of the Israelis by his side. The rest of the Israeli crew was still anchored at Manaus, doing last minute touch ups while awaiting the arrival of Merciful so they could transfer over the cars that were not to land here. Reilly was speaking to the Israeli, the woman, Lana, softly enough that Stauer couldn't make out what was said. One thing I'm sure of, though; hot as the woman may be, Reilly wants her for one thing and one thing only, training his troops on the armored cars. Single minded, fanatical bastard!
Stauer then gave a rueful grin, noticed by no one, as he considered, And what have you done with Phillie, then, that's so very different?
No, that was different, he corrected himself. I pushed Phillie aside-temporarily!-because I couldn't be seen having favorites or having access to a woman when none of the other boys did. To Reilly, though, that Israeli girl doesn't even exist as a woman as long as she has a "higher and better use," namely prepping his troops to fight. Stauer looked over at Lana again and mentally added, The man is sick!
But then, in shape she's a lot like Phillie . . . except Phillie has a better rack. And-Stauer mentally sighed-I find that I'm missing her. Maybe I need a chat with the Doc . . . a prescription or something.
Contrary to Stauer's opinion, Reilly was by no means unaware of the feminine charms of the tall, slender Israeli standing next to him. He simply compartmentalized well, even while he made an entry in his personal memory bank: Israeli girl with high cheekbones and cute, if not large, tits; to lay, as soon as possible after the mission.
Even while he made that little entry in his mind, his mouth was asking, "What will the laser rangefinder do for effective range?"
Lana had taken an instant liking to the man and she knew exactly why. Not that she didn't know, in the way all women know, that he'd just made a mental note: Israeli girl with high cheekbones and cute, if not large, tits; to lay . . .
But she was obviously something more to Reilly, that thing she'd been mostly denied when she'd been with the Israeli Army. He thinks of me first and foremost as a soldier! How great is that?
She chewed at her lower lip a moment before answering, "Depends, sir. It's a low velocity gun any way you look at it, firing a high cross-section, fin-stabilized shell. High crossing winds . . . moving target . . . anything like that and it's a matter of luck and training more than the gun or the fire control."
"Training's going to be a problem," Reilly said. "I don't have and won't get permission to fire major rounds before we move out. And I doubt the TP ammunition we're getting is really exactly the same."
"It isn't," Lana agreed, "but that's not a problem. Our reputation depends on how our products do in combat, when it counts. A lot of armies that have these things they can't afford to fire much. So each car comes with three sub-caliber devices, basically modified expended shell casings filled with concrete, and with a redundant, bore-sighted spotting rifle from the old 105mm recoilless inside. I made sure all twenty-seven of the ones that come with the rebuilds were loaded to come here, to your base camp. Along with about thirty thousand rounds of .50 spotting. We can train to shoot."
I think I'm in love, Reilly thought. Okay, not really. "You mean 106, don't you?"
"No," she replied, very definitely. "You called it that, to distinguish it from its failed predecessor, but it was 105mm all the same."
"Really?" Lust, anyway.
Alone in her tent, lying on the unmattressed folding cot, wearing sweaty battle dress, Phillie was miserable, And it's not just because I'm horny. But I never even see Wes, except at a distance. Or in the occasional meeting. Or . . .
Her moping was interrupted by a knock on the tent pole. It didn't resound, exactly, but she'd gotten used to the rather different sounds of a lonely jungle camp as compared to the big bright city and houses with doors that reverberated like drums.
"Nurse Potter?" Sergeant Coffee asked. "Are you decent?"
I'm actually pretty damned good, she thought, not that anyone's tried me lately. "Here, Sergeant Coffee. I'm dressed."
Coffee stuck his large, squared-off head inside the tent flap. "Message from the commander, Nurse Potter. He needs a medical person at the docks and Dr. Joseph is busy with setting a bone from B Company. Somebody from one of the LCM crews must be hurt."