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4
Ft. Bragg, NC Sol III
1824 March 19th, 2001 AD
"Mueller."
"Are you kidding?"
"No."
The most far-ranging reco
"You have to be," said Mosovich. "First, he's inexperienced as hell. Second, he's a goddamn loudmouth; the bastard can't figure out when to shut the hell up." He got up and went to the refrigerator and extracted a beer bottle. He held it up in question and Ersin nodded. Jake pulled out another for himself, popped the top on both, nailed the trash can and came back to the table.
"Except for that, he breezed Q course," continued Ersin, doggedly, "and he's got a great record before he joined special forces. But the real reason I want him is his terrain analysis background. We're going to need that know-how, since the whole damn planet is apparently one big swamp and I don't know a field soldier who can match it. It doesn't hurt that he's a goddamn pack mule, either."
"What about Simmons?" asked Mosovich, taking a pull on the beer.
Ersin pulled his head back and twisted it in a motion that was faintly ratlike. "He moves like a fuckin' yak in the bush," he spat in distaste.
"You've worked with Mueller," said Mosovich. It was a statement.
"Yeah," admitted Ersin, swirling the beer around and taking a sip. He preferred a more cultured brew than the sergeant major had to offer, but free beer was free beer. "He used to hang with Harold. We did some pellet work and I ran him through the SOT course a couple of times. He's a good guy with his hands." In the Special Operations community the phrase carried a special panache. It meant a person who was weapons deadly.
"Well, God knows I've pissed enough people off in my time," admitted Mosovich, reluctantly.
"He's a know-it-all, but the real problem is he's usually right." Ersin dropped the argument as won.
"Well, that's Ops, Weapons, Commo, Demo and Medical. We need an Intel with a double up in medical. You."
"Okay. Mueller can double O and I and so can you."
"I'll double commo, Walters doubles demo and we can all double weapons in a pinch. Besides, it's a recon not a raid, who needs weapons?" smiled the scarred veteran.
Ersin snorted. "So, you're going unarmed?" It was not an unknown technique on a lone recon, but taking a team was another thing.
"Bet your ass I'm not. I hope we never fire a round, but I'm going to pack the heaviest hardware we can manage. I hope that Trayner comes through with those blanket requisitions. We're go
"Let me guess. One wouldn't be Trapp, would it?" Ersin smiled at a memory and wiggled his fingers in front of the sergeant major's eyes, like someone doing magic.
"Yeah," smiled Mosovich. "We might need somebody to do close-in work. Speaking of which, we need better information on those things' physiology before we land. Who else?"
"I don't know. Another engineer?"
"What happens if we have to break contact?"
"Oh. Okay." Ersin thought for a moment over another malty sip of beer. His whole face twitched like a rodent flicking its whiskers. "Sniper?"
"Yeah. But who?" asked Jake raising an eyebrow. He obviously had someone in mind.
"Fordham," said Ersin, instantly.
"Nah. He's good but you ever heard of Ellsworthy?"
Ersin looked uncomfortable. "I don't know, Jake, a woman?"
"You ever seen that bitch shoot?" Jake smiled. His scars pulled the grin into something from a nightmare.
"No, I've heard about her though. Ba
"I can't think of anyone I'd less like after my butt. There's a bunch of people that seriously tried to take me that I've never lost sleep over, but if that chick ever got pissed at me, I'd just dig my own grave."
"You're the boss, boss," said the sergeant first class, with obvious reluctance.
"Betcher ass."
* * *
Seven men and one woman sat or stood in a small, poorly-lit room located in the bowels of the John F. Ke
One of the talkers was a blond bear of a man wearing the uniform of a Special Forces staff sergeant from 7th group. Well over six and a half feet tall, he filled his BDU uniform like a human tank. He was debating knife fighting techniques, complete with gestures, with a short, wiry chief petty officer sporting a SEAL badge. The petty officer was laughing through snaggly teeth, obviously unimpressed. The PO's forearms looked like his role model was Popeye from their thickness, and his hands and wrists were heavily scarred.
A tall, soft-looking Special Forces sergeant first class with a van Dyke beard was carrying on a one-sided conversation with the sole female. She was good looking in a long-faced way with thick, short auburn hair and dark green eyes. She wore the carefully tailored uniform of a Marine staff sergeant. Her unadorned jacket was cut almost skin tight and made of such a lightweight fabric that every movement of her small but firm breasts was clear. Likewise, the skirt had been cut to accentuate her figure and, unless Jake was mistaken, was at least two inches short of regulation. Her shoes, while a regulation black, were a nonregulation patent leather and had a sharply spiked four-inch heel. Between the uniform and the scent of heavily musked perfume that hit him like a sledgehammer as he entered the room, the staff sergeant was an incitement to riot. She also had the stillest features that Mosovich had ever seen. Her hands and arms remained motionless at her side throughout the entire conversation and her head never swiveled. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the wall, thousand-yard stare firmly in place. The bearded staff sergeant continued his monologue, totally oblivious.
Besides those four there was Ersin, a gigantic ebony master sergeant with a Special Operations Command patch, and a rotund black staff sergeant from 1st Group.
"Okay, let's get this started," Mosovich said as the group settled in and quiet fell. "First introductions. On my right is SFC Mark Ersin, 7th Group. He will be the Intel sergeant for this little op." He gestured to the ebony master sergeant. "And this is Master Sergeant Tung. He's sort of an odd jobs man at JSOC."
Several of those present chuckled. The master sergeant, a long-time instructor as well as field soldier, was as much a legend in the special operations community as Mosovich. "Oh, some of you know Master Sergeant Tung. Good, that will save no end of problems. Master Sergeant Tung will be handling operations." He gestured at the large blond staff sergeant. "Staff Sergeant Mueller comes to us from 7th Group also. Don't be confused by his looks, he's not just big and dumb: he's big, dumb and mean. Petty Officer Trapp," he gestured to the SEAL, who gave a friendly snaggle-tooth smile and comic wave, "comes to us from SEAL Six.