Sergeant Chavez wrenched himself to a sitting position, shaking off the cobwebs as he did so. He rubbed a hand over his face. The heavy beard he'd had since puberty was growing with its accustomed rapidity, but he wouldn't shave today. That merited a grunt. Normal Army routine was heavy on personal hygiene, and light infantrymen, as elite soldiers, were supposed to be "pretty" troops. Already he stank like a basketball team after double overtime, but he wouldn't wash, either. Nor would he don a clean uniform. But he would, of course, clean his weapon again. After making sure that Julio had already serviced his SAW, Chavez stripped his MP-5 down to six pieces and inspected them all visually. The matte-black finish resisted rust quite well. Regardless, he wiped everything down with oil, ran a toothbrush along all operation parts, checked to see that all springs were taut and magazines were not fouled with dirt or grit. Satisfied, he reassembled the weapon and worked the action quietly to make certain that it functioned smoothly. Finally, he inserted the magazine, chambered a round, and set the safety. Next he checked that his knives were clean and sharp. This included his throwing stars, of course.
"The captain's gonna be pissed if he sees them," Vega observed quietly.
"They're good luck," Chavez replied as he put them back in his pocket. " 'Sides, you never know..." He checked the rest of his gear. Everything was as it should be. He was ready for the day's work. Next the maps came out.
"That where we're goin'?"
"RENO." Chavez pointed to the spot on the tactical map. "Just under five klicks." He examined the map carefully, making several mental notes and again committing the details to memory. The map had no marks on it, of course. If lost or captured, such marks would tell the wrong people things that they ought not to know.
"Here." Captain Ramirez joined the two, handing over a satellite photograph.
"These maps must be new, sir."
"They are. DMA" - he referred to the Defense Mapping Agency - "didn't have good maps of this area until recently. They were drawn up from the satellite photos. See any problems?"
"No, sir." Chavez looked up with a smile. "Nice and flat, lots of thinned-out trees-looks easier than last night, Cap'n."
"When we get in close, I want you to approach from this angle here into the objective rally point." Ramirez traced his hand across the photo. "I'll make the final approach with you for the 'leader's recon.'"
"You the boss, sir," Ding agreed.
"Plan the first break point right here, Checkpoint SPIKE."
"Right."
Ramirez stuck his head up, surveying the area. "Remember the briefing. These guys may have very good security, and be especially careful for booby traps. You see something, let me know immediately - as long as it's safe to do so. When in doubt, remember the mission is covert."
"I'll get us there, sir."
"Sorry, Ding," Ramirez apologized. "I must sound like a nervous woman."
"You ain't got the legs for it, sir," Chavez pointed out with a grin.
"You up to carrying that SAW another night,
"I carried heavier toothpicks,
Ramirez laughed and made off to check the next pair.
"I've known worse captains than that one," Vega observed when he was gone.
"Hard worker," Chavez allowed. Sergeant Olivero appeared next.
"How's your water?" the medic asked.
"Both a quart low," Vega replied.
"Both of you, drink a quart down right now."
"Come on, doc," Chavez protested.
"No dickin' around, people. Somebody gets heatstroke and it's my ass. If you ain't gotta piss, you ain't been drinking enough. Pretend it's a Corona," he suggested as both men took out their canteens. "Remember that: if you don't have to piss, you need a drink. Damn it, Ding, you oughta know that, you spent time at Hunter-Liggett. This fucking climate'll dry your ass out in a heartbeat, and I ain't carrying your ass, dried-out or not."
Olivero was right, of course. Chavez emptied a canteen in three long pulls. Vega followed the medic off to the nearby stream to replenish the empty containers. He reappeared several minutes later.
