proper.
“Where is everyone?” Tripwire asked.
Oddy shrugged. “Could they be in one of the longhouses?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Crosshairs, give it a boo.”
Crosshairs retrieved his sniper rifle, its Gewher scope much more powerful than the binoculars. “Nothing,” he said, scanning the village. “They could be inside, but…sitting in the dark?”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Zippo said.
“Maybe they got their wind up,” Answer said. “They know we’re coming.”
They retreated from the ridge. The soldiers took a knee, waiting on Oddy’s decision. Whatever choice he made, they would obey. Not out of fear or responsibility, but out of a deep and enduring respect. Even Zippo and Gunner, who hailed from states in which people of Oddy’s complexion were once lynched and still treated as second-class citizens, accorded Oddy their undying loyalty.
“We could wait for daylight,” Oddy said. “But we operate best at night. Up to it?”
Six heads nodded steadily.
“Okay.” Oddy sketched a diagram in the dirt. “Zippo, Slash, Answer, I want you to flank around the village and set up on the far side. Gunner, Tripwire, Crosshairs, and I will move down the valley and string out along the near side. You boys on the far side, position yourselves to the left of the longhouses, we’ll take the right. That’ll prevent any crossfire. Wait for my signal before moving in.” He removed a Mossberg pump-action shotgun from his pack and said, “Gear up.”
Crosshairs loaded a fresh clip into his G3SG/1 sniper rifle while Zippo checked the jellied-fuel in his flame-thrower’s dual tanks. Slash strapped a bandolier of fragmentation grenades across his chest. Tripwire filled the pockets of his combat jacket with explosives, blasting caps, insulated wire, and a detonating plunger. He sang his standard pre-combat melody: “My Boyfriend’s Back,” by The Angels.
“That’s a fag-song,” Gunner said, rolling a lambskin condom over the barrel of his Stoner M63A1 light machine-gun.
“ Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend’s back ,” Tripwire sang, blowing Gunner a kiss. The burly Iowa native flipped him the bird.
Answer smeared black Kiwi shoe polish on his face and hands and slammed a clip into his M16. The Magnificent Seven were ready to rock and roll.
“Flanking team,” Oddy said, “take as wide a berth around the village as you can. I’d like to be in position while there’s some daylight left. You dig?”
“We dig,” Zippo said.
“So let’s do it to it.”
Zippo, Answer, and Slash disappeared down the slope. Oddy gave them fifteen minutes before leading the remaining team members down a winding speed trail into the valley basin. Underneath the jungle canopy, everything was tinted chlorophyll-green. To his left, perhaps three-hundred meters, Oddy heard swift-running water. He asked Gunner for the acetate-covered map and unfolded it across the machine-gunner’s broad back.
“That’s a major waterway,” he said. “A tributary of the Song-Hu river, wide and deep enough to support boat traffic.”
“Think that’s how the weapons are being transported?” Gunner asked.
“Could be,” Oddy said. “I thought they’d be air-dropped or slogged in on foot but—”
“Charlie’s always doing what’s least expected,” Tripwire said.
It was a sketchy situation, an ambush waiting to happen. Charlie, you fucking snake , Oddy thought, What are you up to? A B-52 Bomber passed low overhead, the force generated from its six engines vibrating the soldier’s bodies. Something in the Sergeant, a subconscious twinge, told him to pull back and assess the situation. But his conscious mind assured him the men were amped-up and raring to engage. He folded the map and tucked it into Gunner’s pack.
“Can’t be far now.”
The village appeared through a gap in the foliage. In the gathering dusk, the huts cast long shadows, their outer walls stained with dark slashes that could have been oil,
“Where is everyone?” Tripwire asked.
Oddy shrugged. “Could they be in one of the longhouses?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Crosshairs, give it a boo.”
Crosshairs retrieved his sniper rifle, its Gewher scope much more powerful than the binoculars. “Nothing,” he said, scanning the village. “They could be inside, but…sitting in the dark?”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Zippo said.
“Maybe they got their wind up,” Answer said. “They know we’re coming.”
They retreated from the ridge. The soldiers took a knee, waiting on Oddy’s decision. Whatever choice he made, they would obey. Not out of fear or responsibility, but out of a deep and enduring respect. Even Zippo and Gunner, who hailed from states in which people of Oddy’s complexion were once lynched and still treated as second-class citizens, accorded Oddy their undying loyalty.
“We could wait for daylight,” Oddy said. “But we operate best at night. Up to it?”
Six heads nodded steadily.
“Okay.” Oddy sketched a diagram in the dirt. “Zippo, Slash, Answer, I want you to flank around the village and set up on the far side. Gunner, Tripwire, Crosshairs, and I will move down the valley and string out along the near side. You boys on the far side, position yourselves to the left of the longhouses, we’ll take the right. That’ll prevent any crossfire. Wait for my signal before moving in.” He removed a Mossberg pump-action shotgun from his pack and said, “Gear up.”
Crosshairs loaded a fresh clip into his G3SG/1 sniper rifle while Zippo checked the jellied-fuel in his flame-thrower’s dual tanks. Slash strapped a bandolier of fragmentation grenades across his chest. Tripwire filled the pockets of his combat jacket with explosives, blasting caps, insulated wire, and a detonating plunger. He sang his standard pre-combat melody: “My Boyfriend’s Back,” by The Angels.
“That’s a fag-song,” Gunner said, rolling a lambskin condom over the barrel of his Stoner M63A1 light machine-gun.
“ Hey-la, hey-la, my boyfriend’s back ,” Tripwire sang, blowing Gunner a kiss. The burly Iowa native flipped him the bird.
Answer smeared black Kiwi shoe polish on his face and hands and slammed a clip into his M16. The Magnificent Seven were ready to rock and roll.
“Flanking team,” Oddy said, “take as wide a berth around the village as you can. I’d like to be in position while there’s some daylight left. You dig?”
“We dig,” Zippo said.
“So let’s do it to it.”
Zippo, Answer, and Slash disappeared down the slope. Oddy gave them fifteen minutes before leading the remaining team members down a winding speed trail into the valley basin. Underneath the jungle canopy, everything was tinted chlorophyll-green. To his left, perhaps three-hundred meters, Oddy heard swift-running water. He asked Gunner for the acetate-covered map and unfolded it across the machine-gunner’s broad back.
“That’s a major waterway,” he said. “A tributary of the Song-Hu river, wide and deep enough to support boat traffic.”
“Think that’s how the weapons are being transported?” Gunner asked.
“Could be,” Oddy said. “I thought they’d be air-dropped or slogged in on foot but—”
“Charlie’s always doing what’s least expected,” Tripwire said.
It was a sketchy situation, an ambush waiting to happen. Charlie, you fucking snake , Oddy thought, What are you up to? A B-52 Bomber passed low overhead, the force generated from its six engines vibrating the soldier’s bodies. Something in the Sergeant, a subconscious twinge, told him to pull back and assess the situation. But his conscious mind assured him the men were amped-up and raring to engage. He folded the map and tucked it into Gunner’s pack.
“Can’t be far now.”
The village appeared through a gap in the foliage. In the gathering dusk, the huts cast long shadows, their outer walls stained with dark slashes that could have been oil,
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