Caseless were still in his environment suit. He pulled them free, secured them to his chest pouches, replacing the fifteen-rounder with a thirty, putting the nearly full fifteen-rounder into the pouch at his thigh which formed the gun’s holster. The handmade fighting knife he used was still sheathed to his environment suit. He resheathed it to the right calf of his penetration suit. He secured the grenade array to his left thigh, standard high explosive, smoke and sound/light.
He pulled the sweater on over his head. Fortunately, it was a V-neck to allow him access to the pouches on his chest pack and large enough. “You look like Lara Lynn,” Aldridge quipped, cupping his hands in front of him as if they were supporting huge, pendulous breasts. Lara Lynn, aside from her other show-biz talents, was the hit of Mid-Wake entertainment for a less subtle reason, to which Aldridge referred.
“Thanks a bunch, Sam. Better than freezin’ my ass off.”
“I hear ya,” Aldridge nodded.
Standard procedure for a penetration was that the suits, wings, helmets, and, if buoyancy comp sleds were used, those, too, were towed back to the relative, safety
of the water. Two of Aldridge’s men were still in environment suits, helmets off, and as some of the other Marines began carrying the sleds back down the beach, security on either side of them, these two still in their environment suits rehelmeted, got a thumbs-up signal from Sam Aldridge, and ran after them.
Darkwood, Aldridge beside him, watched as the two men brought the sleds beneath the surface, then disappeared beneath the surface of the lagoon as well.
With the environment suits, of course, they could stay under water forever until they died of old age, boredom, or starvation. The suits were even designed so the wearer could urinate while wearing one, the urine storing in a pouch built into the leg of the suit. The starvation part was a potential problem, but the men could take turns breaking surface, then break atmosphere long enough to get down a nutrition pack.
Marines were taught to do that sort of thing, so Darkwood dismissed their problems. He had enough of his own.
“So, Jason—where’s this training center supposed to be? They asked me to come here, never told me where it was.”
“It should be well inland. That’s all I know. The psych people figured that the best way to acclimate these guys to surface warfare was to get them as far away from the water as practical, so psychologically they would get used to a strictly terrestrial environment. So—we go inland and look for signs of the Marine Spetznas ahead of us.”
“I’m sending one of the penetration teams around to the far side of the island to look for that Island Classer. If they don’t see one, then what?”
“Hell if I know,” Darkwood admitted as he shifted into his pack. “We improvise. Either that or I see an eye doctor when we get home.” He had seen what he had
seen. He knew that.
Darkwood took one of the AKM-96s and a bandolier of spare magazines, slinging the bandolier cross-body, right shoulder to left hip. He holstered the 2418 A2, secured it, then checked the action on the AKM-96. It was typical, sloppy but reliable. He rammed the magazine home.
Sam Aldridge was briefing one of the penetration teams for the tour around the island.
Darkwood stared ahead into the dense island growth. Palm trees, traditional jungle vegetation, pine trees, snow in the pine boughs. He judged the wind and temperature combined to be making a wind-chill factor about ten degrees or so below freezing. He pulled on his gloves.
“Ready,” Aldridge said, suddenly beside him.
“Let’s go,” Darkwood nodded. They started out of the rocks, across the sand, into the odd-looking jungle. Men fanned out ahead of them, rifles slung, PV-26s in their hands for silent killing if needed.
If this were a full-scale Soviet invasion of the island, there was nothing to do but observe and get the hell out,
He pulled the sweater on over his head. Fortunately, it was a V-neck to allow him access to the pouches on his chest pack and large enough. “You look like Lara Lynn,” Aldridge quipped, cupping his hands in front of him as if they were supporting huge, pendulous breasts. Lara Lynn, aside from her other show-biz talents, was the hit of Mid-Wake entertainment for a less subtle reason, to which Aldridge referred.
“Thanks a bunch, Sam. Better than freezin’ my ass off.”
“I hear ya,” Aldridge nodded.
Standard procedure for a penetration was that the suits, wings, helmets, and, if buoyancy comp sleds were used, those, too, were towed back to the relative, safety
of the water. Two of Aldridge’s men were still in environment suits, helmets off, and as some of the other Marines began carrying the sleds back down the beach, security on either side of them, these two still in their environment suits rehelmeted, got a thumbs-up signal from Sam Aldridge, and ran after them.
Darkwood, Aldridge beside him, watched as the two men brought the sleds beneath the surface, then disappeared beneath the surface of the lagoon as well.
With the environment suits, of course, they could stay under water forever until they died of old age, boredom, or starvation. The suits were even designed so the wearer could urinate while wearing one, the urine storing in a pouch built into the leg of the suit. The starvation part was a potential problem, but the men could take turns breaking surface, then break atmosphere long enough to get down a nutrition pack.
Marines were taught to do that sort of thing, so Darkwood dismissed their problems. He had enough of his own.
“So, Jason—where’s this training center supposed to be? They asked me to come here, never told me where it was.”
“It should be well inland. That’s all I know. The psych people figured that the best way to acclimate these guys to surface warfare was to get them as far away from the water as practical, so psychologically they would get used to a strictly terrestrial environment. So—we go inland and look for signs of the Marine Spetznas ahead of us.”
“I’m sending one of the penetration teams around to the far side of the island to look for that Island Classer. If they don’t see one, then what?”
“Hell if I know,” Darkwood admitted as he shifted into his pack. “We improvise. Either that or I see an eye doctor when we get home.” He had seen what he had
seen. He knew that.
Darkwood took one of the AKM-96s and a bandolier of spare magazines, slinging the bandolier cross-body, right shoulder to left hip. He holstered the 2418 A2, secured it, then checked the action on the AKM-96. It was typical, sloppy but reliable. He rammed the magazine home.
Sam Aldridge was briefing one of the penetration teams for the tour around the island.
Darkwood stared ahead into the dense island growth. Palm trees, traditional jungle vegetation, pine trees, snow in the pine boughs. He judged the wind and temperature combined to be making a wind-chill factor about ten degrees or so below freezing. He pulled on his gloves.
“Ready,” Aldridge said, suddenly beside him.
“Let’s go,” Darkwood nodded. They started out of the rocks, across the sand, into the odd-looking jungle. Men fanned out ahead of them, rifles slung, PV-26s in their hands for silent killing if needed.
If this were a full-scale Soviet invasion of the island, there was nothing to do but observe and get the hell out,
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