“No, First Sergeant, they are not moving. Nor do they show any signs of moving until this rain stops. I’ve already confirmed that.” Remington waved to the screens where Syrian T-62 and T-72 tanks sat alongside BTR-60 APCs and artillery field pieces covered by tarps and tied to stakes hammered in the ground.
Goose tried not to let the cold distance in Remington’s tone throw him. “I thought we might discuss possible strategies for taking advantage of this reprieve, sir.”
“That’s commendable, First Sergeant,” Remington said, “but I was already starting to plan those strategies forty-two minutes ago when I learned the unexpected storm front was gathering.”
“We have satellite access again, sir?” Goose asked.
“I do.” Remington nodded.
“I wasn’t aware that the U.S. satellites were back online. The media people still seem pretty much out of the loop and don’t have access to these connections.”
“The U.S. satellites are not back online, First Sergeant.”
Goose thought about that. The mil-sat systems the Rangers presently tied into were part of the same system that supported the American media efforts. If he wasn’t using those, that meant Remington had an outside source for the feeds on the screens.
“You have feeds,” Goose stated.
Remington turned and looked at Goose. “Yes, I do, First Sergeant. And I’m considering my options at this point. With the Syrian cav units temporarily immobilized, I intend to capitalize on their weakness. We are a Ranger unit. We specialize in hit-and-git strikes when the time comes. At present, I am identifying targets and examining possible courses of action.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I find something you’ll be useful for, First Sergeant, I’ll send for you.”
Even in the darkness, Goose felt heat fill his face. “Yes, sir.” OCS might have placed bars on Remington’s shoulders and taught him about diplomacy, command history, and how to conduct himself in the upper tiers of the military, but Goose knew he was as wellinformed about tactics, weapons, men, and materials as Remington was. The only thing the captain had over him at the moment was access to enemy intel.
Remington turned from Goose. “You can also discontinue the need for weather reports, First Sergeant. Although I appreciate your zeal, I’d rather get them the modern way.”
Something’s going on, Goose realized. He’d rarely seen Remington so cold and contained. Although their relationship was sometimes rocky, as all relationships got at times, Goose could count on the fingers of one hand when Remington had gone out of his way to pull rank so harshly. And the captain never pulled rank in front of other members of the team unless dressing Goose down was an object lesson to the others and put them all on notice, uniting them and letting them know that their fates depended on how well they served their captain.
“Don’t you have ops you should be overseeing, First Sergeant?” Remington asked, shifting his attention back in Goose’s direction.
“Yes, sir.” Goose pulled his right arm up in a salute.
Remington cut him a brief salute and turned away.
Dismissed abruptly, knowing Remington had stopped just short of being insulting, Goose performed a sharp about-face that set his knee to screaming. He managed three steps before Remington called for him.
“First Sergeant Gander.”
Goose turned, on the defensive at once and feeling helpless. When they were sergeants together, Goose had taken offense at the smug tone of superiority Remington often evidenced. The captain had better diction, was totally comfortable at a general’s black-tie affair, and had master’s degrees in history and political science—from college courses taken while he was a sergeant and aiming for general—to fill in the lulls in conversation.
During the seventeen years of their association, Goose had never felt intimidated by Remington when it came to the hands-on grunt work of soldiering. Only in the occasional social circles or around women had Goose felt somewhat at a loss. Remington could be the life of the party, and he always had two or three good-looking women hanging around him.
“It has come to my attention that the void left by the death of First Lieutenant Tarver as my executive officer in the chain of command has yet to be filled,” Remington said, facing Goose again.
“Yes, sir.” Goose also knew that the captain hadn’t had a single problem using him as executive officer. They’d worked together as a team for years. They knew each other’s moves. None of the lieutenants available to replace the XO had that kind of knowledge.
“I’ve rectified that by placing Lieutenant Perrin as my XO as of this morning.”
Goose knew Perrin and didn’t care for the man. Nick Perrin was twenty-nine years old and had come into the military as an officer out of college. The fact that he hadn’t advanced past lieutenant in five years spoke volumes. However, Perrin was devious and smart as a weasel, making him one of Remington’s immediate selections for the group of hard cases the captain kept for ops that didn’t run exactly by the book.
“Understood, sir,” Goose said.
Remington waited, probably thinking that Goose might want to comment on the selection.
Goose wanted to comment but knew that the effort would do no good. The fact that Remington had selected Perrin out of three other lieutenant choices within the Rangers spoke volumes. Perrin had been chosen for two reasons that Goose could see. One reason was to get back at Goose because Remington knew Goose didn’t approve of the lieutenant, and the other was to make certain Remington could operate any questionable activities in plain view without meeting Perrin on the sly. That didn’t mean that Remington’s black ops would take place aboveboard, but Perrin’s constant presence wasn’t going to be questioned.
“Comments, First Sergeant?” Remington invited.
Goose knew better than to bite. “No, sir. I understand, sir. I’ll be awaiting your orders or Lieutenant Perrin’s, sir.”
Remington stared at Goose as if somewhat dissatisfied with the easy capitulation on his first sergeant’s part. Or maybe the captain was more unhappy and
