Part 19 (2/2)

”Went downtown,” Viljoen replied. ”Found a bunch of unemployed black fellahs, offered them a thousand Rand apiece for four day's work. Course, it was more complex than that. Had to get them all uniforms and spend a half a day teaching them to at least look semi-military. And Dumi and I did all the driving. Paid the same friend of ours in the Ammunition Corps that provided the ammunition to arrange the transportation.”

”There's nothing that isn't for sale here,” Dumi added.

”Nothing that isn't for sale with your people in charge,” Viljoen said, smiling.

Dumisani answered seriously, though his eyes said he was joking, ”Well . . . I think yours were actually the better thieves, but mine have to work so much harder to catch up.”

Victor shook his head. Bad these people might be. Worse than Russia? Not a chance. ”And your people?” he asked of Dov.

”They're inside the s.h.i.+p and won't come out until we're in international waters. But they're ready and have all the tools and spares needed for the job.”

”Can they do it in the twenty-one sailing days to Guyana?”

”Should be able to,” the Israeli answered. ”a.s.suming decent-”

Viljoen saw a girl-well, no, not just a girl, this one was clearly a woman-emerging from the hatchway at the base of the superstructure. She walked over to stand next to Dov, though she seemed to be trying not to stand too close to him. She was olive skinned, tall, slender, and extraordinarily pretty; high cheekboned, delicate chinned, with full lips, and with exceptionally large brown eyes. Her long, wavy hair-brown with traces of red-flooded over her shoulders and down her back. Even though he was gay, he still had to notice: beautiful was still beautiful, whatever one's s.e.xual orientation.

”Lana,” Dov acknowledged, before making introductions all around. Rather than Israeli, the woman's accent sounded pure Cape English. ”Lana's our senior optics . . . person. She's originally from here; Cape Town, wasn't it, Lana?”

”Cape Town, yes,” Lana Mendes answered. ”Then Israel, then the Army.”

”What did you do in the Army, Boeremeisie?” Dumisani asked. The term didn't precisely fit Lana; she was neither a Boer nor a farm girl. But the Zulu had meant it well and so she took it. More importantly, Lana had grown up with a Bantu nanny. The Zulu's voice and accent represented something very close to ultimate security and comfort at a level well below the conscious.

”Tank driving and gunnery instructor,” she said ”Oh, really?” Bantu and Boer asked, at the same time.

D-102, San Antonio, Texas

Both Cazz and Reilly had remained behind since it was their job to recruit, personally, the largest two contingents, the light armored and amphibious infantry companies. Unsurprisingly, they'd each gone immediately for a first sergeant, starting with the best they had known-both of whom had retired as sergeants major-and then working down from there. Rather, Cazz worked down from there. Reilly's first choice had jumped at the chance. Cazz had to strike off two names from his list before settling on the third. Admittedly, this may have been just as well as a former Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps was perhaps a bit too noticeable a personage for what was still, hopefully, a clandestine mission.

Oddly enough, both non-coms were former Marines, since Reilly's choice, Roger George, had spent four years in the Corps, three of them in Southeast Asia, as an infantryman. He'd then gotten out and discovered that civilian life, after the excitement of combat, left much to be desired. The Marines being full at the time, and the Army recruiting system plagued by idiocy on an heroic level, then Corporal George had been enlisted into the Army Band, as a piccolo player. That had lasted about four months before he put in for a transfer to First Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield, in Savannah.

He knew Reilly from approximately the latter's seventh day in the Army, when then Private Reilly had been herded from Fort Polk's replacement detachment to a training company on Fort Polk's South Fort. George had been Reilly's junior drill sergeant through basic combat training.

In any case, Sergeant Major (Retired) and First Sergeant, pro tem, George and Sergeant Major (Retired) and First Sergeant, pro tem, Webster, got along famously. So had they in Vietnam, as a matter of fact, when they'd been members of Second Platoon, B Company, Fifth Marines.

It was truly a small world, and smaller still within the military.

Reilly and Cazz got along. Reilly and Webster got along. Cazz and George got along. But.

”We haven't had any personnel problems or interpersonal issues because n.o.body's really been collected and s.h.i.+pped onward yet,” said Webster. George nodded knowingly on the other side of the table.

”It's gonna be ugly,” Cazz added. ”With A Company entirely Army-excepting only you”-he inclined his head toward George-”and B Company entirely Marine, I'd expect all kinds of hate and discontent down in the Alpha Alpha. And then when we board s.h.i.+p? Ugh.”

”I'm not so sure,” Reilly replied. ”Especially about aboard s.h.i.+p, where there'll be all kinds of air and naval types for the Army and Marine infantry to get together in peace, love, and harmony and hate jointly. And then, too, we're all f.u.c.king old, gentlemen. Too much past that young and full of come and essentially brain dead status of our misguided and misspent youths. The youngest man in B Company will be thirty-seven; the youngest in A Company thirty-nine. That's getting to be a little old for interservice rivalry. In any case, First Sergeants, pro tem, it's going to be your job to squash any of that s.h.i.+t within your companies.”

”Easy say, boss,” said George.

”But maybe hard do,” finished Webster. ”Once a misguided child too often means always a misguided child, with the emphasis on 'child.'”

”Yeah, well, that's why both of you are going down with the first major lift, here to Houston, to Port of Spain, to Georgetown, departing tomorrow morning at 10:24.”

”You know,” said George, ”you really ought to keep Webster here to help with transportation. I can handle the Army and Marines well enough until we hit the two hundred man point.”

”No,” said Cazz and Reilly together. Reilly added, ”The critical ma.s.s, so to speak, will a.s.semble there. So there you two will be. Cazz and I can handle trans. s.h.i.+t; with colonels commanding companies and former divisional sergeants major playing first s.h.i.+rts, it's not as if we aren't the most grossly overled military group outside of the Army of Andorra.”

”Andorra?” Cazz asked.

Smiling, Reilly replied, ”Just reserve officers, no enlisted men or non-coms. They haven't fought anybody in about seven hundred years. Poor babies, too, what with having to carry their own luggage and all.” That last was said with a sneer.

”You still can't tell us the mission?” Webster asked.

Cazz took the question, ”Not until Stauer says okay, Top. Sorry. I think he'll tell you in Brazil, and give you a chance to opt out if you don't like it.”

”That's something, I suppose.”

”Oh, and Top,” Reilly said, quite certain that George would never back out, ”make sure they all know the song, old hands and newbies, alike, before I get there.”

George shook his head but half-sang, ”Von Panzergrenadieren, Panzergrenadieren uberrannt.”

”Hey, I wanna know that one,” Webster said, perking up.

D-102, Georgetown, Guyana

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