“Two gun, aiming point identified!” Riley answered. The gunner on the other track scrambled off the ground where he had been dozing and dove into the track. A moment later his head popped through the top.
“Deflection, one-seven one seven five! Close enough.”
“Deflection, one-seven one seven five!”
keren spun the sight towards the other track and read off the numbers. “Three gun!”
“Three gun!”
“Aiming point this instrument!”
“Aiming point identified!”
“Deflection one-nine one one eight!”
“Deflection one-nine one one eight!”
He waited until the guns called up, secretly pleased that the assistant gunner on his track got up faster than the gunner on Third Track and repeated the process twice more for each gun until they were laid in parallel and he pronounced himself satisfied. “They’re in. Only way to know if they’re actually aligned is to fire them in series, sir. But they’re as laid as I can get them.”
“That was amazing. How did you get the bubble to level so fast?” the officer asked, still surprised at the casual display of skill.
“My first platoon sergeant taught me that trick, sir. If the bubble seems like it should go one way, you have to grab two knobs. Twist one to push the bubble and twist the other in the opposite direction. Also you should be looking at the bubble from your normal sighting angle, rather than trying to crane down from on top. That keeps you from chasing the bubble.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks.”
“De nada, sir. No offense but we really needed to get laid in.”
“I know. I think the company is really going to need us this time.” The young lieutenant was obviously trying very hard not to look scared. For an officer to look frightened was bad form and also he had been told it was guaranteed to push the troops over into panic in a situation just like this one. Unfortunately he was trying so hard not to look scared that he was looking terrified instead.
“Sir,” said Keren, taking pity on the poor kid. “We’re three klicks behind the line and we’ve got a battalion of line dogs in front of us. What do we have to worry about?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Hell, yes. Want some unsolicited advice, sir?”
“No, but you’re going to give it to me anyway, aren’t you?”
Keren grinned. “Wouldn’t be a specialist if I didn’t. Walk back to the FDC track. Tell Sergeant Ford, who is an asshole and everyone knows is an asshole so they won’t take offense at you, to go to the tracks and make sure that all the .50 calibers have been cleaned, oiled, check head space and timing and get some of the ammo bearers cutting fire lanes for them. Get some mines out, that sort of thing. Pull it out of a book. Then sit there and look regal while you pore over a map you already have memorized. Don’t pace. Sip water from time to time. Make like you’re asleep. Maybe read the manual a few times.”
“And that is supposed to inspire the troops?” The lieutenant gave a tired smile.
“No, but it’s better than watching you run to the latrine every fifteen minutes, sir,” the specialist quipped. “Yeah, the newbies and, hell, even the sergeants are looking kind of light around the gills and they could use the example and some work to take their minds off what’s coming up the road. Act like it’s just another exercise, a nice, cold day in the country.”
“Good suggestions, Specialist. So, why in the hell are you just a specialist?”
“You didn’t hear that, sir?”
“No.”
“I told my last platoon leader his mother was a whore with AIDS who squirted him out in a public toilet and forgot to flush, sir.” He looked momentarily chagrined. “I was kinda drunk at the time. But he really was an asshole,” he finished, as if that completely explained the incident.
“I’ll bet.”
“Roger, out.”
Captain Robert Brantley carefully hung the microphone back on its clip, settled his Kevlar on his head, adjusted the chinstrap just so, picked up the squad automatic weapon he had appropriated, checked the chamber to ensure it was clear and climbed over the cases of ammunition in the Bradley fighting vehicle and out the troop door. Descending to the loam of the forest floor he caught the eye of his first sergeant and made a circular motion with his arm signaling “rally on me.”
As the sergeant ambled over, the commander took the time to observe the company digging in. At least he watched the few members of the Second platoon who were in view. The order had been clear and, for once, unquestioned. Two-man fighting positions, interlocking fields of fire, M-60E machine gun positions with extra cover, sand-bagged front parapets, everything rikky-tik. Except for a few small points that it was no one’s job but the company commander’s to consider.
“How’s it going?” he asked the first sergeant when he arrived. The first sergeant was a transfer, a large NCO with a beer gut that a few years before would have had him out of the Army. The company commander could have accepted that without qualm — armies had functioned for ages without professional runners being the norm — were he a competent NCO. Unfortunately he was not.
The first sergeant was a nice, quiet simpleton who had apparently risen to his present rank through a series of superiors who were okay with having a nice, quiet simpleton as an NCO. How that had happened in the pre-Posleen Army, Captain Brantley was unsure. The Army he’d left ten years before generally shuffled material like this out by around staff sergeant rank.
“Uh, okay, sir,” the first sergeant said and saluted sloppily. He pulled his BDU blouse down to straighten out the wrinkles and tried to buckle his equipment belt. The maneuver only served to heighten the effect of the beer gut. “Umm, First platoon has most of their people now, but we still ain’t heard from Third. An’ we still ain’t seen any sign of Bravo, so Second doesn’t have anybody out there on their left.”
“How very good. Well, the mortars are finally up and ready to support but they only have two guns. How are the positions coming? And do we have any word on hot chow?”
“Well, we’re not as far along over in First platoon as we are here. And I can’t get the XO on the horn, so I don’t know about chow.”
Captain Brantley refrained from sighing. He remembered his first sergeant in the company he commanded during his last hitch. An NCO who was one of the last with service in Vietnam, he could track a mess section down no matter how “lost” they got and if he did not find the mess section he would get pizza delivered. By helicopter if necessary. Since the time of Wellington, at least, if not Gustavus Adolphus, the importance of a prepared meal before a battle had been highly emphasized. Brantley was not particularly happy going into battle with two-thirds of his company, nobody on his left flank and soldiers who were subsisting on MREs and junk food they had packed along.
“Okay, take the command Hummer. There’s a McDonald’s up at the interstate. Get a hundred and twenty hamburgers and thirty cheeseburgers.” He pulled out his wallet and handed the first sergeant enough cash to cover the purchase. “If they’ll take it, try to give them a chit for the food. If they’re closed, get the makings out of the building. Take Specialist Forrier with you.” He gestured with his chin at the RTO lounging on the troop ramp of the command Bradley. The kid got into enough trouble that he would probably jump at the chance to do a little authorized scrounging.
“If you can’t find any hot food there, keep looking, find a deli, a restaurant, anything. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” The first sergeant looked hangdog. “I don’t want to leave you, Captain. We don’t know when they’ll get here.”