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Now, bets were whispered on whether she would determine one or another bit as being real food or, in her terms, "icky stuff." When she was done, she carefully scraped as much of the sauce off the meat as possible and ate it. She examined the other piles minutely, turning her head from side to side and lowering to sniff at them before finally pushing the rest of the plate aside. To Sandra Ellsworthy there were carnivores and herbivores and she knew which one she was.
At a waggling of his bushy blond eyebrows, she silently slid the remains of the meal across the table to Mueller. The huge NCO picked up the plate and shoveled into his open mouth all the leftover piles of individual components, including, and here she had to close her eyes, the "icky stuff." When he was done his cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk. He wiped a bit of sauce off his chin and waggled his eyebrows again.
"If you're quite done." Mosovich chuckled. The little ritual always served as an icebreaker when the tension got too high and in the alien environment of the Himmit ship it was more welcome than ever. He never worried about Ellsworthy knowing her part of the mission. If he asked she could have spit back the entire spiel word for word.
"Contingency extraction is by a second Himmit ship due in four months. Martine has the long-range communications equipment; if need be he can reach the courier standing by the jump-point. We have five months of supplies in mobile form and the ship stores when we're in contact with the ship. Are there any questions?"
There were none; they had heard the same briefing at least a million times before.
"Okay, insertion is in one hour. Let's get suited up, people."
They shoved back from the table and started down the narrow hall to the Number One pressure hold as Rigas headed to control. Mueller picked up the last three slices of fresh bread and stuffed them into his mouth, bulging out his cheeks even further.
"I can't believe how you eat," said Trapp, the gold of a SEAL badge glinting from his beret.
"I goff a lotta maff. Nah lak you runfy guyf!" the huge NCO muttered around the mass of protein and starches.
In the cramped pressure hold of the diminutive ship the lockers of equipment and weapons were being opened by Sergeant Martine, whose stutter did not slow his actions at all. He began assembling his commo kit as Ellsworthy slipped past him to lay out the weapons. Mueller packed himself into the space, not much bigger than a closet, to open up his cases of survey equipment and explosives as Ersin and Richards began a final check of medical stores. In some cases the equipment was enhanced by Galactic technologies. The communications equipment used a subspace field that was supposedly detectable but untraceable. About the only major Federation technology that was not represented was AIDs, to the chagrin of the Darhel. They had been apologetic, but there were simply none available that had not already been bonded to another user.
As the rest of the team made some last adjustments to their rucksacks and combat harnesses, Mosovich slipped in the earpiece of the communications system and gestured for everyone else to slip theirs on. When everyone had complied he applied the throat mike to his Adam's apple.
"Testing, commo check," he subvocalized without opening his mouth or making more than a softly inaudible hum.
"Operations." "Intel." "Sniper." "Point." "Medical." "Commo." "Demo." Mueller pulled out a couple of bricks of C-9 blasting explosive and did a quick juggle. Mosovich quelled him with a look.
"Command, good check. From here on out you only open your mouth to eat." The system transmitted microbursts at low radiation levels that would be far less detectable than voices. If the Posleen were using detection equipment at all, the encrypted microbursts would appear as nothing more than the sort of subspace anomalies usually found on planetary surfaces.
Packs were rechecked, equipment reshuffled and finally everything was settled. Moments later, Himmit Rigas' voice came over the system.
"We'll be entering the atmosphere momentarily. Please assume landing positions."
The team strapped on their packs and weapons then moved to the last hold area and clambered awkwardly into specially designed crash couches. Their packs, fitted into contours designed for them in the crash couches, remained on their backs. As each settled into place, a plasticlike substance extruded and filled in all the open areas between them and the couches then extended to cover their bodies, creeping up their heads and down their arms and over their strapped-on weapons, finally leaving them cocooned except for their faces. Once the smart-plastic shock cocoon felt it had a good fit, it shrank and applied pressure along the extremities. That way if there were a severe inertial event, the team had some chance of survival. Each of them had practiced the maneuver in simulators at Kwajalein, but there was still a moment of panic as the strange substance began to creep across the face before settling alongside the eyes, nose and mouth. Just as the shock cocoons snapped into place the stealthed spaceship hit the outer fringes of the atmosphere and bucked like a bronco.
"Hey, Sarn't Major," Mueller grunted over the commo circuit. "Why the buffet? If they've got inertial dampers, we shouldn't be feelin' a thing."
"Hell if I know, Mueller," snapped Mosovich, "just shut up and hang on." At the same moment the craft took another sharp downward lurch, combined with a hard bank and the sergeant major's face went green.
Ellsworthy, the member with the least experience in rides like this one, suddenly belched vomit, an experience made all the worse for not being able to double over. The stink of regurgitated stew set off a chain reaction. Presser beams swept the cabin, catching the globules of muck and drawing them into the walls as na
"Sergeant Mueller," the intercom chimed as spiderlike na
"Thirty seconds." The crash couches rotated upward on command then flipped, placing the team in a face-down position. Sections of the floor pulled back, leaving them staring through force screens at the purple trees of Barwhon. The primeval forest flashing by faster than a freight train seemed bare inches from their noses. The multicanopy jungle was the most dense in the known universe; suddenly the idea of making a combat jump into it did not seem like a good idea.
"Ten seconds."
Mosovich drew a deep breath as the smart-plastic suddenly receded into the couch. He clutched his twelve-gauge Street Sweeper to his chest, preparing to place more faith in alien equipment than he had in himself. Suddenly the cabin was filled with a roar of air, the voice of JC well known to all Airborne units, and almost immediately Mosovich felt himself hurled downward. Dropping under the combined effect of the ejection system and gravity, there seemed no way the team would avoid being spitted on the Promethean forest giants. As the mantislike trees reached for them Mosovich heard a whine from his pack, and the rate of closure dropped. Without any sensation of slowing other than the testimony of his eyes he came to a halt in midair. Looking around he saw the rest of the team dangling from their harnesses as he was. With a gesture he cut in the drop circuit on the Galactic antigravity device and the Special Operations team began falling toward the alien forest.