The gunny made out the outlines of several team members sitting in the seats against the wall of the aircraft, eating what looked like hamburger patties out of clear plastic Tupperware containers.
“Here, this is yours.”
Army captain Mark Furlong took a seat next to Moncrief, handing him another plastic container.
“What’s this?”
“Chapli kabab.”
“Chappy the fuck what?”
Moncrief took a bite of the spicy kabab. It was shaped like a hamburger but heavily spiced with garlic, salt, chili powder, and coriander. Sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and lemons surrounded the patties in the little plastic container. Moncrief had the image in his mind of some local Afghan café in Lakenheath carrying the food out to a waiting driver.
“Eat as much as you can.”
Moncrief complied, though the coriander didn’t help much.
“It’s the food of the Pashtun.”
“I got it.” Moncrief understood the purpose behind it. His body would absorb the spices, then ooze the scent back out through the pores of his skin. A sniper lying motionless, camouflaged in wait, eating the same food as his target, would have no distinguishing smell from the man who was walking by. A small advantage, but nevertheless an advantage.
“It may be the last time you get anything to eat for a while.”
“Yeah.” The gunny could go a long way without eating a meal. A recon, like a Ranger, knew that pleasures such as meals and sleep became secondary once one stepped out of the door of the airplane.
“You cut out the other scents?” Furlong asked.
“Please. I knew that much.” Moncrief had tossed the aftershave and deodorant out several days ago. He had been a hunter all his life. Scent was a weapon no less important than the rifle he carried, or sight or sound.
“Here’s some kawa.”
Moncrief tasted the lukewarm green tea. It had leaves floating on top.
“Not bad.” He hesitated. “Not freakin’ good, either. Jack Black would be preferred.”
“Speaking of which, I don’t know if you want these or not.” Furlong handed him a small, unmarked packet containing several tablets.
“What is it?”
“CAP go pills. Something new from DARPA. The next generation, they say.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s Red Bull on nuclear steroids. You won’t sleep for several days; you won’t be too hot or too cold. You will hear a fucking flea fly pass by and count how many times he flapped his wings.”
Moncrief opened up the unlabeled container and swallowed two of the small pink tablets. He swallowed some more of the green tea to wash the pills down. It was the new age. The age of the pharmacological warrior. Who was he to stand in the way of progress?
“Here’s another pack. You shouldn’t need it.”
In a short time the gunny started to feel a euphoria coming on. As he looked around the cargo bay of the jet, Moncrief felt sure he was hearing sounds in the jet bay that he hadn’t noticed before. Far forward in the bay, the crew chief was telling one of the crewmembers that an engine would go out soon. It would be number four. And Vaatofu Fury was telling Vaas to finish packing something called the FireFly. No doubt about it: Moncrief could hear more, see more.
What the fuck is this stuff?
“You don’t know us, Gunny.” Furlong sat next to Moncrief. “I’m not thrilled about you being here. We can’t carry a man with a broken leg or a bad back. You get hurt and you’re on your own.” The implication was also that Moncrief was older and, therefore, slower.
“Captain, you don’t have to worry.”
“If you get any one of my men hurt, you won’t have to worry either.”
Moncrief wasn’t offended by the speech. He had given speeches like this before to others. He nodded, watching the men go about their work. Furlong’s men had finished their meals and were in the process of unpacking large, black, sealed containers. Some of the packs contained clothing. Moncrief recognized the brown-linen kurtas and the wool pakols. The short kurta shirt and the round chocolate-colored pakol hat would be typical wardrobe items for Yousef and his mujahideen.
Vass and Villegas had also laid out two Windrunner sniper rifles with scopes. The XM107 Windrunner was a simple machine, a black, lightweight, stainless-steel rifle. Both rifles were resting on their bipods on the floor of the aircraft. One scope was much larger than the others. The weapons should be relatively easy to carry in the high-altitude Hindu Kush.
Burgey was unpacking several black jet-pilot-styled helmets connected to small black tanks. The gunny recognized the HALO gear used in high-altitude jumps. Burgey’s job was to ensure that no piece was missing, no strap was loose.
Villegas went to each piece of gear, checking for anything that could create noise, and picked the gear up and shook it. Occasionally, a small, metallic click could be heard as he shook the gear. Once he found something loose, Villegas used an enormous roll of electrical tape to wrap it tight. They all knew that just one metallic strap slapping against a magazine or the stock of a rifle could send out a telegraph to the enemy.
Frix continued to load magazines with bright brass rounds that had odd black tips. The cargo bay seemed to be a surgical suite, with the skilled operating-room nurses preparing their instruments, laying each out and counting each one, leaving nothing to chance.
“You need this as well.” Furlong handed him a curled-up plastic tube in a sealed, clear plastic bag.
“What’s this?” Moncrief didn’t want to appear stupid later on. He had not seen something like this before. It looked like an IV apparatus.
“You remember asking about this being the Oscar Papa team?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone on this team is OP — blood type O positive. We let you come with us because you are Parker’s man, but also because you are O negative.”
“Damn. You’re saying that each team member is the other man’s potential blood supply?”
“Yes and no.”
“Okay?”
“After seven combat operations, each of these rangers have shared their blood with the other. Every one here had his life saved by a teammate.” Furlong pointed to the lanky sergeant loading the magazines.
“Frix is our best doctor. He dropped out of med school in his second year. He had worked four or five years as an EMT before that in Brainerd, Minnesota.”
“I know Brainerd. Camp Ripley?”
“Yeah, you’ve been to Ripley?”
The National Guard camp had been used by the military for cold-weather training for years. The Mississippi River cut through the camp, but that far north it was a stream no larger than the width of a two-lane highway.
“Two winters.”
“Good. Frix is good, very good. He is the guy we need to get to your man first. He’s been spun up on meningitis.”
Moncrief was reminded abruptly that soon his “man” would be both contagious and very ill.
“Frix is going to give each of us a booster shot. It’s mixed just for this bug.”
“Ten-four.”
“Frix and Burgey are one team. Burgey is our best shot, and Frix isn’t a bad spotter. I’m putting you with them.”
“What about the others?”
“Fury and Villegas are our best speed shooters. They can take out twenty guys in less than twenty seconds. All with head shots. All of us were raised on hunting. Frix and Burgey hunted in the north. Burgey’s from the Upper Peninsula. They can track anything over ice and snow. Vee and Villegas are both from south Texas. South of San Antonio.”
“Vee?”
“Yeah, that’s what we call him. He works the radios. He can take a solar sheet in a sandstorm and give you enough power to call in.”