CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
But I've a rendezvous with death
At midnight in some flaming town
-Alan Seeger, 'I have a Rendezvous with Death'
D Day, Beach Red, Ophir
Reilly was standing there, impatiently, when Fitz reported.
'The mechanic and the Ferret commander were pretty shaken up, boss,' Fitz said. 'I figured we ought to leave them behind. Top concurred.'
The XO was standing in the surf next to the ramp, with waves washing around his ankles. Behind him a vehicle squealed over the wet steel and into the water. Spray from the armored car's wheels sprinkled his back.
'And we haven't a clue what caused the thing to catch fire,' Fitz added. 'And, since we dumped it over the side, we never will. Buuut . . . those things were pretty old. We've been lucky so far. They stood up through Brazil, after all.'
'Mmmm . . . yeah,' Reilly answered. Mourn later. ''Luck.' Nothing for it now. You made the right call. Mount up. Move out in five mikes.'
***
They moved mostly in a column, with the three remaining Ferrets of the scout section forming a wedge at the point, three hundred meters ahead of the main column. Behind the Ferrets, out of range of any RPGs they might encounter, came the first section of Elands, then Reilly's command vehicle, then the second section, then Second Platoon, the antitank section, also in Ferrets, Third Platoon, the mortars, and lastly the ash and trash of headquarters.
In all, it made a column almost a kilometer long, raising clouds of dust as it roared out from the perimeter set up and held by the Marines
'Start pulling the boys into a tighter perimeter,' Cazz told his first sergeant as the last of the armored cars rolled through.
'Roger, Skipper,' Webster said, then turned off to oversee the consolidation.
'Good luck, Reilly, ya doggie Irish bastard, ya,' Cazz said at the dust cloud behind the advancing armor.
And now I feel my age, Reilly thought, as his turretless Eland bounced over the rough ground, beating his kidneys like a good son of the Prophet would beat a sharp-tongued wife.
He stood in the space that would have held a turret, with Schiebel on the pintle-mounted machine gun ahead of him and James driving. James was a damned fine driver but, Jesus, this is rough ground and old technology.
Two vehicles ahead of him, the commander of a gunned, turreted Eland turned and flashed him a smile that would have been brilliant in the day. From the posture and shape he knew it was Lana Mendes. He'd have known anyway, since the order of march was by his command.
Almost, almost, he'd told Green to switch the order of march from First Section leading to Second Section. He hadn't because it would have been such obvious favoritism that he couldn't have stomached it. Nor, he suspected, could Lana have.
But I can hardly stomach that a girl I care for is preceding me into combat, either, even if only by fifty meters. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! The old rule is good: 'Nobody else's wife, nobody's girlfriend, and none of the hired help.' Fuck.
Lana was young and very healthy. The bouncing of the Eland caused her kidneys no serious discomfort. If it had, she might not have noticed anyway. The woman's heart sang at riding into battle on an iron steed, emulating the heroes of her childhood: Dayan, Sharon, and Israel Tal.
Turning her face back to the front, she placed her hands on either side of the vehicle commander's cupola. Night vision goggles on, she scanned to the front and to the left. Although it was premature, she ordered, 'Viljoen, gun to ten o'clock.'
'You see something, Lana?' the Boer asked, although his hand was already spinning the traversing wheel.
'No, just being careful. You should have done it without being told.'
Viljoen bit back a snarly reply. Even so, he thought, No, you should have told me. A vehicle in order of march takes its cue from the one ahead of it, sweetie, or from SOP. Since we don't have an SOP, and the one ahead of us is aiming straight front, there was no cue. Ah, well. It's a little thing after all.
Reilly was about to pitch a bitch at the First Platoon leader when he saw the gun of the second vehicle, Lana's, swing left. Number Three automatically began to traverse to the other side.
He turned full about and saw the gun and turret of the next Eland in line, Sergeant Abdan's, moving to the left. Satisfied, he set his own head and eyes to the front, out to where the scouts led the way.
While it's possible to do bounding overwatch with three vehicles, Snyder, the scout section leader, thought, it just isn't practical.
Bounding overwatch, a military term meaning, in essence, one section moving while another watches over it, ready to fire in support, would have been clearly preferable when heading into the unknown. This, quite despite the fact that there was an unmanned aerial vehicle overhead and forward, scouting in advance of the scouts. The problem with doing it with three vehicles, and after the accident on the boat that was all Snyder had, was that one could either have uneven teams, with lessened security and lessened confidence for the shorter of the two, or one could have one vehicle continuously switching from one overwatch to the other. This last could be done, but it was somewhat slow and somewhat prone to screw ups.
Instead, Snyder kept his three Ferrets in a broad wedge, one-his own-in the center and following an approximately straight path to the objective, the others about three hundred meters to either side-RPG range-to spring any ambush the locals might throw together at the last minute.
Best we can do, I suppose. Well, that, and navigate the company to the objective. 'And for that,' Snyder said, aloud, 'we've got GPS.' Damn, but we've all been spoiled absolutely rotten by GPS.
