Chapter 17

Gunny concentrated on his cards as he puffed hard on his cigar. The weekly poker game between the battalion's senior noncommissioned officers was well underway. In time-honored tradition, it was the opportunity to show up the Navy Senior Chief Petty Officers from the corpsmen attachment. It was also a free discussion of everything from geopolitics to, lately, the military applications of null G. However, most of all, it was a way to show up the rest of the Gunnery Sergeants and Chiefs. Gunny bet heavily on his pair of twos, then tuned into the conversation to hide his confidence.

First Sergeant Miller asked, "You guys hear any scuttlebutt about the new equipment we are supposed to be getting?"

Chief Petty Officer (CPO) Grimwald answered, "I heard that there's going to be a bunch of modified Apaches. Basically, they will just attack helicopters minus the helicopter blades."

Gunny replied around the root of his cigar, "Well, that sounds far too logical for something coming out of the Puzzle Palace. I mean, really! Shouldn't they have come up with something completely useless, that costs billions of dollars, and just got more of us killed? This way, there'll be the minimum learning curve, and well known capabilities and doctrine."

Master Sergeant Wainwright chipped in with his deep bass, "Only pilots are used to dealing in 3D, and the controls to handle that. But maybe if the troops played enough Flight Sims, it would help give them the idea."

"I'm not sure that the attitude is right, Top," said Gunnery Sergeant Tom Jones, "After all, they don't just get to restart, if they fuck it up in real life. So we don't want them to get used to recklessness."

Finally, Gunny groused, "Hey, you in or out, Jones? Or do you need to tie it in a yellow ribbon?"

Grimacing at the reference to his namesakes' song, Gunny Jones looked at his cards again, and threw them down. "I fold," he said with a sigh.

Gunny barked a laugh around his cigar, and tossed down his hand face up, with the pair of twos staring at them all in challenge.

"I'd expect a bunch a rear echelon mother fuckers to get it all wrong! We want them to take risks! Test the envelope! How else are they going to do the impossible, when the chips are down in combat?"

Just as the grumbling retorts threatened to break into violence, a knock came from the door. The senior man, Master Chief Petty Officer Samuels, motioned them for quiet.

Then he bellowed, "Yes? Who is it?"

"Second Lieutenant Brooks, here to see Gunny Adams. Sorry to break up your game, gentlemen, but this has some urgency," was the answering call through the door.

"Well, shit!" Gunny said, scooping up his winnings, and with a grin continued, "Duty calls!"

Gunny Jones just gave him a serious look and said, "Just don't get your ass shot off, doing whatever the Lieuy needs. I want a chance to win my money back from you."

Gunny stuffed the money in his pocket and guffawed, "Never happen, Tom! You suck as much at poker, as you do at field craft."

"Seriously, Clarence. When was the last time the Battalion S-2 interrupted one of our games? Be careful out there, the natives are restless," said Gunny Jones, in a last attempt to give his friend a serious sendoff.

"Yeah, but this is a still wet-behind-the-ears Second Lieutenant. He probably just wants me to read him his mail," said Gunny Adams.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he stepped out the door. He snapped to attention and saluted.

Lieutenant Brooks returned the salute then said with a wry grin, "Read me my mail?"

Gunny flushed briefly, ended his salute and replied, "Sorry, Sir, just couldn't have Jonesy getting all maudlin on me. What did you need me for, Sir?"

"Come with me. I have a bit of a puzzle wrapped in an enigma that I was hoping you could help me with," Brooks said as he turned to head back toward the command bunker.

"That sounds interesting, Sir. What have you got?"

Brooks glanced quickly in all directions.

Then he said, "I'm not sure. You know I've been asking for stepped up satellite and aerial surveillance, but it wasn't showing anything new, so I decided to do some comparisons with our stuff from last year at this time. The only thing I've found, is some differences in shadowing, in a valley just over the Pakistani boarder."

Gunny rubbed his chin with a frown and asked, "Differences in shadowing? What kind of differences?"

Finally reaching his office, Brooks hurried to sit at his desk. He pushed two satellite photos to Gunny.

He said, "Here, take a look, yourself. The outlines are right, but the shadows are wrong. The two photos were taken at the same time of day, on the same day, a year apart. They should be the same."

Gunny stared intently back and forth between the two photos intently for nearly a minute.

Finally, he sighed and said, "Oh! Well that is a bit of a puzzle. What did Intel say about it, and what do you make of it, Sir?"

Brooks snorted, "Intel said I was jumping at shadows! But the only thing I can think about what might cause the differences would be a false bottom on the valley."

Eyes wide in dawning comprehension, Gunny looked back at the photos. Then his eyes narrowed. "That'd be some pretty sophisticated Maskovia, even for the Taliban. I don't think they have the know-how to pull something like that off without someone looking over their shoulders. I bet Intel wouldn't ok an IR photo recon in Pakistan, would they? And if you're right, there'd be enough room in that valley, under a false bottom, to hide some severe nastiness!"

"Well, I did push it as hard as I could, both up the chain in Intel. I talked with my counterpart on the Pakistani side, too. That was my best shot, but Major Fines didn't see it my way. He claimed that the US forces in Pakistan are merely in a support and training role, and don't have the authority to run freelance missions over there. Especially not on the say so of a still-wet-behind-the-ears brand new Lieutenant," Brooks finished with a one-sided grin.

"Oh, sorry about that, Sir," Gunny said.

He squirmed briefly in the embarrassment of having his own overheard comment echoed by the anonymous Major.

After a moment, he met Brooks' eyes, and said flatly, "But you want me and my team to go in there for a look see, don't you? You realize that we could both be Courts Martialed for this?"

Brooks sighed explosively, "Yes, Gunny. But if they went through all trouble to hide something this big from us, then you know as well as I do that we have got to know just what it is that their trying to hide! Because of the politics, this mission is a strictly on a volunteer basis."

"Well, shit, Sir! Aren't they all? I can have the team ready in two hours," Gunny replied. Then he rose to attention and snapped off a salute.

Brad turned off the gravity negation on his modified Chrysler 300C, and swooped into a power dive. The big block V8 engine growled as he increased the power. The transmission and ducted fan's whine went up in pitch to a teeth-rattling scream. Setting his dive at a forty-five degree angle, he fearfully watched his air speed indicators as his speed rose to over one hundred fifty miles per hour. At four thousand feet, he started to level out, and pushed the big engine to the edge of it's redline.

Finally, when his speed stabilized at one hundred sixty eight miles per hour, he pumped a fist and turned to his passenger.

Antonio (or Tony, as he was called by his close associates) had a white knuckled grip on the 'Oh Shit' bar, and the dashboard. Brad grinned at seeing the big man so obviously terrified.

"Ain't this great, Tony? Top speed of over a hundred and sixty five!"

Tony ignored his presumption at using his nickname, instead of his given name, under the circumstances.

He finally managed to choke out, "Are we done here yet? Can you slow down and go back to the boss?"

Realizing that Tony was about to lose his lunch, Brad quickly cancelled his plan to test high-speed maneuvers, like loops and rolls. Letting off on the gas, the engine and the ducted fan noise reduced to just a bit more then normal highway noise levels.

He replied, "Sure, Tony. I'll head back now."

As they came back toward the abandoned logging road, they could see three black hummers and over a dozen men, watching from below.

Brad couldn't resist a last chance to show off the car's capabilities. He yanked the wheel hard over, and goosed the gas pedal. The car went into a tight spin on its axis, as it settled slowly toward the ground. Once it had completed nearly a full circle, Brad yanked the wheel the other way. The spin slowed to a stop, as they settled to the ground.

Brad turned off the engine, unbuckled his racing harness, and jumped from the car, waving to the onlookers. Tony stumbled out of the car less then a step before keeling over and spewing his lunch on the ground.