'For this.' She used both hands to grab him on either side of his head and pulled his lips to hers. He resisted, at first, but she had powers-God-given ones-far beyond his merely mortal ability to resist. One hand, his left, intertwined itself in the great auburn waterfall of her hair while the right, operating entirely on genetic autopilot, sought its way under her T-shirt, behind to her back, and then to the clasp that held her bra. A pinch of the clasp, a twitch of the finger and thumb, and it was loose, her breasts free. That hand then moved to cup the left breast softly but firmly.
She broke the kiss and moved her mouth to his ear. 'Would you prefer to fuck me or to make love to me?' she sighed, breathless. 'You can have it any way you want, any place you want it.'
The spell she had him in wasn't broken, but it had been weakened by the breaking of the kiss. He backed off slightly and answered. 'I'd prefer it when this is over.'
She stiffened. 'Damn! It's your wife, isn't it? I don't care if you're married. I want you now!'
He smiled, more than a trifle sadly. Untangling his hand from her hair and holding it up, he wagged his fingers and asked, 'You mean this? I'm not married; I'm a widower. I wear it in memory.' And because it made me feel a little less alone. I think it did, anyway. Though maybe sometimes it reminded me of how alone I was.
'But the men . . . ?'
He shrugged. 'They don't know, except for a couple of them. No reason to tell them.'
'Bu' . . . oh, never mind. You don't want to make love until the mission is over?'
'Bad policy, I think.'
Her hand went to his trousers, grasping him through the fabric. She looked around. Yes, it was fully dark by now. 'We'll compromise,' she said.
'Huh?'
'Just relax,' she answered, pushing him back. She twisted her body and began to bend her head, even while her fingers worked at the belt and buttons of his trousers. She was perhaps less expert in this than he had been with her bra clasp. Still, enthusiasm counts for much. Her hand felt around softly. 'Ah, good,' she said, in a husky voice. 'I'm not orthodox but for some things I prefer kosher.' As she bent her head over him, she added, 'This isn't sex; that's what everyone says. But at least it's intimate, and emotionally satisfying, if not physically. And don't worry; I'll be the best little trooper you ever saw after this; no favoritism for me. But you will fuck me immediately after the mission is complete. Immediately!'
After that he wasn't in any mental position to argue the point, his brain being much deprived of blood and oxygen.
Oxygen deprived or not, Reilly wasn't nearly finished before he pulled Lana off and said, 'Ah, screw it. Let's fuck.'
'What the fuck do you want, George?' Joshua asked irritably.
Framed in the door of the sergeant major's, the light illuminating his features beatifically, George smiled, stuck out one hand, palm up, and answered, just softly enough not to be heard outside the tent, 'I want my pound of flesh. He did her. Hah!'
'He fucked her?'
George hesitated. His hand dropped slightly. 'Well . . . not exactly. She blew him though. I heard it. Most of it. I came back to collect before he actually finished.'
'Thought so. You're an eavesdropping piece of shit, George. Besides, it doesn't count; ask the former President of the United States. For that matter, ask any fifteen year old; not that there's much difference between the two. He's got to fuck her-and before the mission-if you want your money back, First Sergeant; that was the deal.'
George turned on his heel and stormed off without another voiced word, thinking, Bastard.
D-38, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil
The Eland moved cautiously up the trail, its turret moving left-right, left-right, under Dani Viljoen's deft spinning of the wheel. Beside him sat Lana, her eyes scanning for threats-targets, in other words-and one hand resting on the ready rack of training rounds. Up front, Dumisani drove. He'd come to driving late in life, a byproduct of South Africa's former policy of oppression and suppression of its black population. He'd never quite gotten the hang of civilized driving. For a combat vehicle, this was no detriment but quite the opposite; Dumi could and would do things with a vehicle that had no place in civilized driving but were entirely appropriate in combat.
All three wore helmets on their heads, with boom microphones and cushioned speakers surrounding their ears. With these they communicated through the intercom system when the roar of the engine didn't permit normal conversation.
'Our girl here seems pretty happy, wouldn't you say, Dumi?' Viljoen asked. His manipulation of the traversing crank was automatic, leaving his brain and mouth free to tease the woman.
'Leave her alone, Dani,' the driver said, with just a trace of menace.
'Not a chance,' Viljoen responded. 'How many times has it been now, Lana? Seems like every day since the last foot march you've disappeared for an hour or two.'
'Fuck off, Boer,' the Israeli woman replied. Then, 'Gunner, HEAT, Tank!'
'Identified,' Viljoen said. 'Target.'
'Fire.'
The muzzle flashed. The .50 caliber subcal wasn't nearly enough to rock the armored car. They still felt the blast on their skin. Downrange, a plywood target shuddered. Lana was already slinging another round into the breech as Viljoen announced hit.
'Repeat. Fire.'
'On the way . . . hit.'
'Driver, move out.'
'So how many times has it been, Lana?' Viljoen asked again.
'Has what been?' she asked.
He pulled his face away from his gunner's sight and said, 'Don't be silly.'
She shrugged. 'Do multiples count? If so . . . ummm . . . eight . . . .no, nine. But you can't tell anybody.'
'Wouldn't dream of it. I would, however, suggest that you make sure to wipe your chin before you leave his tent. And take off your shirt beforehand, too, because semen on mostly green camouflage cloth is pretty noticeable.'
'I didn't!' she exclaimed.
'Actually, Lana,' Dumi said from down at the driver's station, 'you did. At least twice.'
'Oh, God, did anybody else notice?'
Dumi answered, 'Just Schiebel and Sergeant James, I think. Don't worry; they won't mention it. But eventually . . . '
'It would be simpler if he'd just screw me all the time,' she said. 'No muss, no fuss. But he's so worried about being caught . . . ' Then, 'Driver halt. Back up. Back up!'
'Gunner, HEAT, tank!'
A very confused and conflicted Reilly watched the half of the armored car platoon for which he had vehicles maneuver through the bare floored jungle. He realized he had eyes only for Lana's Eland and so forced those eyes away. When, after a moment, they went back of their own accord he physically turned away and began the walk back to camp, head toward the ground.
Not far from the armored vehicle training area began the ranges. At the first of these, the Marine company worked their PUS-7 simulators for the their Victor-supplied RPG-7s. Cazz, standing behind the firing line, waved. Reilly returned the wave, politely, then looked down again, continuing on.
Past the antitank range, he came to a square, marked-off open area where one of Sergeant Peters' mortarmen ran from spot to spot, a radio on his back, dropping simulators to mark rounds called in by forward observers.
