The North Korean coughed, adjusted the crotch of his uniform trousers, and began walking toward the nearest launcher vehicle — evidently unaware of the two Marine scouts just a few feet away from him.
When the Korean had gone about thirty yards, Elf tapped Fris on the arm and motioned for him to back away.
The next forty minutes were spent meticulously picking their way through the undergrowth, putting distance between themselves and the missile site, gradually working back toward the road.
After they’d covered a half mile or so, Elf signaled that it was okay to risk a little noise and pick up the pace. They moved quickly now, relieved to be away from the enemy emplacement, and flushed with the excitement of a mission well performed.
They were just outside the fringes of the woods and breathing a collective sigh of relief when they heard the engine. One look at the approaching vehicle was enough. It was a truck painted in the lifeless green shade favored by militaries of many nationalities.
With no apparent hesitation, Elf dropped her backpack. “Take off your pants!”
That was literally the last thing Fris was expecting to hear.
“What?”
Elf peeled her shirt over her head, revealing a half-cup bra underneath, along with considerably more cleavage than her clothed form would have suggested. “Get your pants off, Marine! Do it now!”
Fris tossed his backpack on the ground and did as ordered. He wasn’t wearing skivvies, so dropping the cargo shorts left him naked down to his socks.
That didn’t stop Elf. She was in his arms a split second later, carrying him to the grass in a tangle of half-naked limbs, her mouth locked on his in a passionate kiss.
The sound of the truck was still approaching, but Fris tried to give as good as he received, returning Elf’s kiss with equal vigor. She was really putting on a show too, moaning and squirming against his body like he was the sexiest hunk of man she’d ever seen.
The shriek of badly maintained brakes announced that the truck was stopping. Fris wanted to sneak a peek at the tactical situation, but Elf was demanding his full concentration.
She didn’t break the kiss until they could hear male voices and the sounds of people jumping down from the bed of the truck.
Then she released her hold on Fris, glanced up, and squealed as though she was just now noticing the presence of strangers.
She squealed again, covered her brassier clad chest with one arm, and bolted for the nearest bushes — grabbing her backpack on-the-fly.
Fris, with his pants down around his ankles, got his first view of the interlopers. Six Cuban soldiers, dressed in the hunter green uniforms of their country’s army. They laughed and traded remarks in Spanish as Fris scrambled to his feet and pulled up his shorts.
Elf could be heard making hurried fumblings behind the bushes. Although (if Fris knew her at all), she wouldn’t be bothering with her shirt. She’d be rummaging in the backpack and recovering her 9mm.
There were six of them, not counting the driver in the truck’s cab.
The M9 Beretta had a fifteen round magazine, and Elf was a hell of a good shot. With the element of surprise on her side, there was a decent chance that she could drop three or four of the Cuban soldiers before any of them could react.
Buttoning his waistband, Fris turned enough to spy his backpack. If Elf started shooting, he’d dive for the pack and try to get to his own 9mm.
This was a major downside of the tourist masquerade. It was impossible to keep your weapons close at-hand.
One of the soldiers stepped closer and rattled off something in Spanish.
Fris thought he caught the words singar, casa, and Yuma. He could only think of one sentence construction containing all three of those words. Hey, you dumbass American, why don’t you go home to fuck?
He gave them a fake grin and raised his hands in a ‘hey, you got me’ gesture, trying to radiate harmless stupidity even as he was considering the best way to break the man’s neck.
The Cuban looked downward, frowned, and said something else.
Following the man’s gaze, Fris looked down as well. The fly of his cargo shorts was still open. He grasped the metal tab of the zipper and rectified the problem.
The Cuban ruffled the Marine’s hair in the kind of condescending gesture of affection that adult men bestow on small boys. Then the man laughed again, and tromped back toward the truck, followed by his five compañeros.
A minute later, they were gone, the truck leaving dark trails of diesel smoke as it receded from view.
Elf came out of the bushes, still shirtless, her M9 pointed skyward in a two-handed ready grip.
Fris took one look at her and grinned again, a real one this time. “Hey, Corporal… Nice—”
Elf cut him off. “Stow it, shithead! If you even think about saying what I think you’re gonna say, I’ll put two rounds in your head and blame it on the North Koreans.”
Fris held up his palms and tried to look innocent. “Come on, Elf. I was just going to say ‘nice work’. That was quick thinking. You got us out of a tight spot there.”
Elf snorted. “I’ll bet that’s what you were going to say.”
“I was,” protested Fris, putting all the sincerity he could muster into the fib.
“Fine,” Elf said. “Watch the road.”
Fris did as instructed, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye as the female corporal put her shirt back on.
When her clothing was restored and the M9 tucked out of sight in the backpack, both Marines started back toward the village, doing their best to simulate airheaded tourists returning from a long stroll.
“You know…” Fris said after a long stretch of silence.
“Don’t say it!” Elf snapped.
So he didn’t, and they walked another mile without talking.
Finally, Elf sighed. “Okay, go ahead. Just get it out of your system.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fris.
“Oh yes you do. You’re dying to say it. So spit it out, and we’ll be done with it.”
“You’re a good Marine,” Fris said. “And it’s a pleasure to work with you.”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t!” Elf said in a near shout. “Just go ahead and finish it. Nice… what?”
“Let’s forget the whole thing,” said Fris. “I almost said something unprofessional. Something that one corporal should never say to another.”
“Tell me,” Elf said. “Nice what?”
Fris shook his head. “No.”
Elf gave him an elbow in the ribs. Not full contact, but hard enough to get his attention. “I mean it! Tell me! Nice what?”
Fris massaged the spot of the elbow strike. “Nice tits,” he said.
She elbowed him again, harder this time. “Goddamn it, Marine!”
“I told you it was better kept to myself,” he said. “I decided to be a good boy, and keep my mouth shut. You wouldn’t let me.”
“I should have shot you back there,” she grumbled, “and left your body in the woods.”
“You can shoot me next time,” Fris said.
“Don’t tempt me!” growled Elf.
But she was smiling. Fris could see it out of the corner of his eye.
CHAPTER 61