Ken Ching, the new man, fired the big weapon four times and shook his head. "This is not an easy popgun to make go bang. Almost tore my shoulder off."
Jaybird put on his serious face. "Mr. Ching. That's because you held it too close to your shoulder. Allow about a half inch between your shoulder and the stock to absorb some of the recoil."
"Really?" Ching asked.
"Oh, yeah," Red Nicholson chimed in. "Helps a bunch."
Ching laughed at them. "Not a chance. Learned about that from my grandpa when I was twelve and he had a ten-gauge shotgun."
Murdock took his turn with the big fifty, and was impressed with the telescopic sight and how well it zeroed in on a man-sized target over half a mile away. He got his twenty-five rounds in in two sessions. It was easier on the shoulder that way.
It was nearly 1400 when they finished firing. They double-timed it back to the bus and Jaybird broke out the rations.
"Not those damned MRE horse turds," Ross Lincoln bleated.
"You don't want any, you don't get any," Jaybird said. "You should have tried the old C rations they used in WW Two and in Korea. Those were not the best. These rations are ten times as good."
Each man took one of the dark brown plastic pouches about a foot long and seven inches wide. They were marked "MEAL, READY-TO-EAT, INDIVIDUAL."
These were all the same "MENU NO. 6, CHICKEN ALA KING, ACCESSORY PACK C, CINPAC INC. CINCINNATI, OHIO."
The men cut open the pouches and looked at the familiar contents. Most of them had eaten more than their share of the MRES on combat missions and field exercises.
"How they expect us to make coffee when they don't give us no damned canned heat?" Al Adams asked. "Hear the old C rations had a little can of jellied gasoline you lit and it burned damned hot."
"Yeah, if you had time and nobody was shooting your ass off," Joe Douglas chirped.
The men dug through the contents. The chicken A la king came in a brown plastic package inside a slender cardboard box.
"We supposed to eat this chicken stuff cold?" Scotty Frazier asked.
"Yeah, cold, or I'll take it away from you and stuff it up your ass," Magic Brown bellowed.
The rest of them guffawed at the crack and settled down to eat. One envelope had crackers in it, and another was filled with peanut butter. All of the plastic envelopes had tear slots so they could be opened easily.
"Wow, I got Taster's Choice Instant Coffee," Jaybird said. He had opened the accessory packet B that bragged of having coffee, sugar, dry creamer, salt, chewing gum, an inch-high bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a wet-wipe towelette.
In the main envelope there were also a cocoa beverage powder for a hot or cold drink and a beverage base powder to mix with half a canteen cup of water. Most of the men used the beverage powder and discarded the cocoa and coffee mixes.
Murdock was surprised to see many of the men eating the crackers and peanut butter. He ate the cold chicken A la king. It wasn't half bad. It would have been better hot, but they didn't want to take the time. They had plenty of water in the water cans they had brought with them from Coronado.
Then Jaybird brought out the capper, large chocolate bars he'd had stashed in a cooler loaded with dry ice.
Murdock found Ron Holt. "Your PRC come through the swim in its watertight with no problems?"
"Haven't checked."
"Better. I want you to send a message to Command Master Chief Mackenzie back in Coronado."
Holt stared at him in confusion for a minute.
"That's not SATCOM. It's not line out of sight and we ain't talking to no aircraft." He frowned for a minute. "This damned thing can do so much sometimes I forget all it can do. Oh, yeah, hook into the worldwide cellular telephone system. Piece of cake."
He snapped two switches, and saw the power come on for the warmup. Then another light blinked and he hit the cell-phone circuit.
"We have a phone number, sir?"
Murdock gave him a number, and Holt punched it into the keyboard. A moment later Holt nodded and passed the hand set to Murdock.
"Master Chief Mackenzie. Murdock here."
"Indeed it is, sir. How goes the Hell Days?"
"Fine, so far. Wanted to remind you that I won't be able to have that dinner out with you tonight. Unless you want MRES."
"No, thanks. This man Holt getting the knack on the new radio? At least new to him?"
"Seems to be working out. Thanks, Master Chief. We're off on a fun hike."
He hung up and looked back at Holt. "Now set up the unit to contact SATCOM and get me through to the CIA."
Holt frowned for a minute, then hit two switches and unfolded the satellite's small antenna. It was collapsible, and when extended looked like a small dish. He attached the antenna and turned it slowly and watched the readout dial. When the antenna was in line with the communications satellite many miles overhead in orbit, the readout told him it was in the correct position.
"Let's send a data burst, so nobody can get a fix on our position, Holt. You know how to do that?"
"Yes, sir. Write out your message and I'll type it on the keypad."
Murdock looked at his code book and wrote out this message
"Zebra Two Oscar [Third Platoon's code word for the day] training mission under way. No casualties. On schedule. No air extraction needed. Cancel previous request. End."
"What now?" Murdock asked the new radio man.
"Now I type it on the keypad, check for accuracy, and then set the broadcast band to the SATCOM." Murdock checked the message on the liquid crystal display screen and approved. Holt touched another button, and the message was automatically encoded. He looked at his L-T.
"What would come next if we really wanted to send the message, Holt?"
"I'd push the send button and it would jolt out of here in a compressed burst of less than a millisecond of time."
"Right, good. Now shut it down. No transmission. That exercise is through. I want you to have this procedure down so you can do it in the dark, in your sleep with both hands tied behind your back and while having great sex with a blonde. Understand?"
"That's a Roger, sir."
"And stop calling me sir."
"Fine with me. I mean, sure. That's cool, sir."
Murdock shook his head and went to talk to Jaybird. He told him what he wanted and went back to the bus. He found the box of fraggers and half-a-dozen WP grenades.
By the time he got outside the bus, the men had finished the MRES and were sprawled in the shade of the big rig. Jaybird walked back to the bus after having set up the.50-caliber ammo boxes out from the bus at twenty yards, thirty yards, and forty yards.
Jaybird stopped a dozen feet from Murdock. The L-T took out one of the smooth and round M-67 hand grenades with the spoon handle and held it up. "You men know what these little sweethearts are. Sometimes they can save your ass. If you know how to use them right. Harmless as a newborn babe until the damn spoon is popped."
Murdock pulled the ring and jerked the safety pin out of the grenade. He held it a moment, then let the arming spoon pop off the grenade and tossed it underhand toward Jaybird.
20
Jaybird's eyes widened just a moment. Then he reached out, caught the 4.2-second-fused fragmentation grenade, spun, and threw it as far as he could toward the boxes he had just set up as targets. At once, Jaybird dropped to the desert sand and turned his head away from the coming blast.
The grenade exploded just as it hit the ground between the thirty- and forty-yard targets. The men heard some shrapnel whistling through the air over their heads.
"Anybody hit?" Murdock asked. The SEALS shook their heads, and there were a couple of audible negatives. Jaybird got up, dusted off his cammies, and walked on up to the group.