He shook his head. “Ancient history, Cass. I’m not a Marine anymore, and I have no desire to go back. That’s someone else’s job now.”
“There’s no such thing as an ex-Marine,” Cassy said. “You were the one who told me that.”
Jon took another swallow of the Cristal. The can was sweaty in his hand. The beer was starting to lose its crisp edge. Soon, it would be cool instead of cold. The last of it would be gone before cool gave way to warm.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Cassy.
Jon lowered the beer can. “I’m thinking… that we should have asked those local boys to bring us some ice.”
“No you’re not,” said Cassy. “In your head, you’re out on maneuvers with the Four Pedestrians. You know you are.”
“Maneuvers are training exercises,” said Jon. “What those Marines are doing is real world. Not a simulation. Not an exercise.”
This earned him another light kick in the ankle. “Why are you dodging the point?”
“I’m not dodging anything. I don’t even know what the point is.”
Cassy let her extended leg drop back into the webbing of the lounge chair with exaggerated force. “The point is that you’re morphing back into a Jarhead. Just these couple of days around the Four Pedestrians, and you’re getting the old taste in your mouth. Don’t tell me you’re not.”
“I’m not,” Jon said. “Really I’m not. That part of my life is over, and I don’t want to go back. I’ve had enough fear and enough pain and enough regret for two lifetimes. Trust me, I don’t need any more.”
“I know you don’t miss the bad parts,” Cassy said. “Nobody would miss some of the ugly shit you went through, and remember that I saw a piece of it. At least the aftermath. But I’ve been watching you since our Jarhead visitors first came aboard. There’s still some of Staff Sergeant Clark in you, Jonnie. I can see him. He’s in there, doing the seven-count manual of arms inside your head, even if you won’t admit it.”
“I don’t think so,” Jon said. “If I was yearning for the old days, I think I’d know it. And I’m not feeling any regrets for what I left behind.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Not even a fraction of a little bit,” he said. “None. Not a shred.”
But he was lying, and neither one of them knew why.
The unit in Liv Peary’s hand was a Rockwell Collins AN/PSN-13 Defense Advanced GPS Receiver (DAGR), known colloquially among America’s military services as a “dagger.” In standard configuration, daggers were matte green and grey in color, but some clever soul at GITMO had wrapped this one in bright fuchsia neoprene to make it resemble a cell phone. The effectiveness of the deception was somewhat limited by the size of the unit. It was larger than most mobile phones, and significantly thicker than any models on the commercial market, a difference that could best be disguised by keeping the thing out of sight as much as possible.
Real cell phones require communication with cellular service nodes to establish a GPS fix. This unit linked directly to the Global Positioning System satellites, eliminating the need for cell towers, which were not at all common in the less developed parts of Cuba.
The average time-to-fix specification for the unit was listed as under twenty-two seconds. This one could generally sync up and provide a location fix in less than half that time.
Liv got a quick look at the screen, memorized the coordinates, and stuffed the unit back into her pocket. “About five hundred more yards,” she said, “then we should think about leaving the road.”
She eyed the terrain ahead and did a visual estimate. “Maybe where that tree is with all the red blossoms.”
“Sounds good,” Webb said.
He was on her left side, matching his pace to hers and holding her hand as they walked. Even out here in the boonies, it was safer to keep up the cuddly tourist act, in case someone in the woods or the cane fields had them in line-of-sight.
As they reached the indicated tree, Liv bent down and pretended to check her shoelaces while Webb took a final look around. “I think we’re good,” he said.
Liv stood up and the two Marines slipped into the trees and began working their way west.
When they could no longer see the road, they paused to make changes to their clothing. Bright colored outerwear went into their backpacks, and darker more subdued replacements came out. Items that might conceivably be worn by casual travelers, but less visible against the earthy color palette of the forest.
This was a tradeoff that had been discussed at-length with Colonel Dawkins and his planning staff. The sightseer charade was useful for penetrating Cuban territory, and it seemed to be working so far. But the clothing styles and colors necessary to maintain the tourist look were not very suitable for concealment in the wooded areas and cane breaks where the North Korean missile sites were supposedly hidden.
Webb had suggested packing cammies in the backpacks, for use when the scouts got into precisely this situation. But that was another part of the tradeoff. Americans discovered wandering around the backwoods in civies might put on a convincing performance as tourists who had lost their way. If they were caught wearing military camouflage, all semblance of pretense would be lost. Instead of having a chance to potentially talk their way out of the mess, they’d either be arrested or shot, neither of which were options with exciting career opportunities.
Which was how Webb and Liv ended up skulking through the undergrowth of Las Tunas province in clothes that were too conspicuous for their comfort.
They moved slowly and carefully, trying to step either on bare ground, or on leaves that were damp and turning to mulch. The crunch of a dried leaf under foot, or the sound of a snapping twig could carry a long way in the still air under the forest canopy.
When they’d gone a mile or so, Liv located a clearing and took advantage of open sky to grab an updated GPS fix. With the interference of the surrounding trees, the dagger’s sync time was considerably longer than twenty-two seconds, but the screen eventually coughed up the current coordinates.
Point Yellow, the estimated position of the missile site, was approximately a half-mile farther in. If the drone surveillance pukes were correct and there was a missile site in this area, Webb and Liv could expect to encounter the guard force or missile crew any time now.
They slowed their progress even more, moving with extreme caution, watching and listening before each incremental advance toward the target coordinates.
The orders did not require the scouts to reach the missile site, or even to lay eyes on all of the launchers. Visual identification of a single launch vehicle would be enough. If that couldn’t be managed, a positive sighting of uniformed North Korean personnel was a less preferred (but acceptable) substitute, especially if they were seen carrying or operating military hardware. Anything that could confirm the presence of missiles at Point Yellow.
Webb was working his way around the bole of a cottonwood tree when Liv laid a hand on his wrist to still him.
He froze immediately, trying his best to breathe without any sound at all.
When Liv knew that she had his attention, she pointed toward something about five degrees right of their line of advance.
Webb scanned the indicated direction for several seconds before he spotted it. A dark greenish black shape on the far side of a thicket of bushes. The thing was mostly obscured by leaves, but it was large and appeared to be made of metal.
His first thought was a launcher truck, one of the transporter erector vehicles they’d seen images of in the mission briefing. And maybe that’s what it was, but his team hadn’t been deployed to report on maybes.