“Hold it,” Murdock barked as he stepped between them. “What the fuck is this all about?”
“The old Chinaman there can’t take a little teasing,” Ronson said.
“This big horse’s ass wouldn’t know a little of anything if it hit him in his fucking face,” Ching said.
Ed Dewitt heard the ruckus and stopped his squad, which was in the lead. Jaybird halted the other squad. Everyone had heard at least some of the exchange.
Murdock sat Ronson and Ching in the dirt and made them look at each other. “Hey, you two assholes. So you’re both pissed off about being on another conditioning hike. So what the hell do you think you’re drawing the big paychecks for? You earn your pay with your training sweat. When we get into action, that’s the payoff of all of our work.
You two know all this. We’re a team, remember? We work, we function, we kill working together as a fucking team.”
“Oh, shit,” Ronson said.
“Yeah, Ronson, you’ll be shitting blood if you don’t get with the program here,” Murdock said. “Teamwork means each of us relies on the man next to him to protect his ass. He doesn’t, and you’re in graves registration before you can piss purple. You read me, you two?”
He watched them. Ching had taken two or three long breaths; at last he nodded. Ronson looked away, spat on the ground, and slammed his palm onto his thigh. He stared up at Murdock, and the edge of a grin showed. “Shit, yeah, Skipper. I’m with you.”
“Okay, get on your feet, shake hands like a pair of SEALS, and let’s get back to work. Ching, you move to rear guard where your regular spot is. A little separation right now won’t hurt.
“Ronson, you try to keep your yap shut for a while, you read me, sailor?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Same formation. Ed, let’s move them out.”
Five minutes later a red flare burst to the left of the platoon.
Silently the men shifted to a line of skirmishers along a low ridge, and when Murdock chattered off three rounds from his MP-5, the rest fired down the slope into a dry wash three hundred yards below.
All of the men wore their Motorola radios with lip mike and earphones. Murdock let the firing continue for a minute, then spoke into his mike.
“Cease fire. Remain in place.”
Murdock lifted out of the sand and rocks, and moved along the men, checking their positions, seeing who had found any cover at all. He glanced up just as Ching lifted up, swung his Colt Carbine around, and ran toward where Harry Ronson lay looking the other way.
Before Murdock could yell, Ching fired off three rounds, and then three more. Ronson jumped up, his face wavering between surprise and abject fear.
Murdock charged over, and saw Ronson staring at a spot two feet from where he had been. There a four-foot-long rattlesnake writhed in a death struggle. The head of the snake had been chopped off by the six .223 slugs.
Ronson shook his head, kicked the still-spasming snake, then ran to Ching and grabbed him in a bear hug. Tears brimmed his eyes, but never made it to his cheeks.
“Ching, you beautiful motherfucker, don’t you never die,” Ronson said. It was the highest praise one SEAL could bestow on another. “We need you in this fucked-up outfit.”
Murdock looked at the snake, then at Ching. “Nice shooting, man.
You even got an angle so you wouldn’t spray Horse. Let’s all take ten and settle down.” The men gathered around, and stared at the snake.
Joe Douglas looked at it, and then up at Ching. “Your prize, man, you killed it. You want the skin? I’ll skin it out for you. Make a bitchin’ headband.”
Ching nodded.
They watched Douglas take out his knife and slit the snake from tail to what was left of the head, then strip the skin off it. He looked up.
“Hey, anyone for rattlesnake steak? It ain’t bad, honest. We used to have it when I went hunting over in Arizona.”
“You eat it,” Washington said.
“Have to cook it first. We probably don’t have the time.”
He was right. Five minutes later, Murdock called them together.
“See that ridge up there with the notch? How far from us is it?”
The guesses ranged from one mile to ten.
“It’s about four miles. We’re looking across a small valley, and that always messes up your distance perspective. Usually the point is farther away than it looks when viewed across a low area. We have a company of regulars tracking us. They’re fresh, and moving fast. We need to get to that ridge, and then surprise them when they start up it.
We’ll double-time for fifteen minutes, then walk for fifteen, and alternate that way until we’re there.
“Jaybird, keep time on that stopwatch of yours. First Squad takes the lead. Lampedusa, a hundred yards in front. Let’s move out.”
The men were dragging by the time they hit the top of the ridge.
Murdock spread them out in a line of skirmishers on the reverse slope so they could just see over the top. Then he fired a red flare into the small barren valley they had just crossed. He kicked out three rounds from his MP-5, and the rest of the platoon opened fire.
“Cease fire,” he called after about thirty rounds per man.
“Bradford, break out the Fifty. Pick a target, and get off five rounds at your pace. Machine gunners, set up and support his fire when he finds a target. Go, go, go.”
Bradford picked out a rock about four hundred yards away, and hit it with three of the five shots. The machine gunners chimed in, and when Bradford landed his fifth round, they all ceased fire, and the California desert returned to its quiet mode.
Far down the ravine they saw two black hawks circling on a rising air current. Halfway down the slope a desert jackrabbit left his nest under a thin sage and Scurried across to another spot of concealment.
Murdock let them rest a minute. It was nearly 1700. They were about ten miles from the bus. He positioned the squads side by side across fifty yards of desert ridge.
“We’re going down the far side here, men. I want you to work as a squad. Four men move out twenty yards, hit the dirt, and fire to the front to cover the other four men moving up. Then the ones who just came up move out twenty, hit the dirt, and cover the first four, who leapfrog. Work that way down the rest of the way to the bottom of the slope. Be careful of your fields of fire. Stay even with the other squad, and don’t shoot anybody. Clear?”
They worked the basic fire-and-move drill until they all were at the bottom. By that time it was almost 1800.
“Find a spot and enjoy your MREs. You all were told to pick one up before we left.”
Murdock let them rest for a half hour. It was well dark by then in the California desert. He talked with Ed Dewitt. “Think any of the men know where we are from the bus?”
“Jaybird. Probably Lampedusa. The rest of them could be out here all night.”
“About time we had a night drill on using the compass, finding your way back to the bivouac.”
Ed grinned in the darkness. “Gonna be half of them sleeping out here tonight without a blanket.”
“Be good for them. We’ll drop them off at two-hundred-yard intervals by pairs. Then let them find their way back.”
“We keep Jaybird and Joe with us?” Ed asked.
“Right. Otherwise they would team up, and get everyone back.”
Ed chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve been too damn soft on these guys lately.
Be good for them.”
“By the way, Ed. Which way would you strike out to find the bus?”
Ed laughed. “I know the exact direction. You couldn’t get me lost in a jungle.”
“Good, you get the con as we head back. First we need a little bit of night-firing practice. What haven’t we done lately?”