Executive orders - Tom Clancy [630]
I bet those fuckers are fun to drive, Coots said.
I bet they're fun to shoot. The scene changed again. The reporter's familiar, handsome face was covered with dust, with the bags of exhaustion under his eyes.
This is Tom Donner, with the press team assigned to the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. How can I describe the night we had? I've been riding with this Bradley crew, and our vehicle and the rest of B-Troop have gone through-I don't know how many of the enemy in the past twelve hours. It was War of the Worlds in Saudi Arabia last night, and we were the Martians.
The UIR forces-the ones we faced were a mix of Iraqis and Iranians-fought back, or tried to, but nothing they did
Shit, wish they'd've sent my unit, a highway patrolman said, taking his usual seat for his beginning-of-watch coffee. He'd gotten to know some of the drivers.
Smoky, you have those in the Ohio Guard? Coots asked.
Yeah, my unit's armored cavalry. Those boys from Carolina had a big night. Jesus. The cop shook his head, and in the mirror noticed a man walking in from the parking lot.
Enemy forces are in full flight now. You've just had a report from the National Guard force that defeated two complete armored divisions-
That many! Wow, the cop observed, sipping his coffee.
-the Blackhorse has annihilated another. It was like watching a movie. It was like watching a football game between the NFL and the Pop Warner League.
Welcome to the bigs, you bastards, Coots told the TV screen.
Hey, is that your cement truck? the cop asked, turning.
Yes, sir, Holbrook answered, stopping on the way to join his friend for breakfast.
Make sure it don't blow the hell up on you, Coots said, not turning his head.
What the hell is a cement truck from Montana doing here? the cop asked lightly. Huh? he added to Coots.
He's got some kinda fuel problem. We asked him to move the rig. Thanks, by the way, he added. Don't mean to be unneighborly, buddy.
It's all right. I'll have it checked for sure.
Why all the way from Montana? the cop inquired again.
Well, uh, we bought it there, and bringing it east for our business, y'know?
Hmmm. Attention returned to the TV.
Yes, they were coming south, and we drove right into them! a Kuwaiti officer was telling another reporter now. He patted the gun tube of his tank with the affection he might have shown a prize stallion, a little man who'd grown about a foot in the last day or so, along with his country.
Any word on when we can get back to work, Smoky? Coots asked the cop.
The highway patrolman shook his head. You know as much as I do. When I leave here, I go up to the line to play roadblock some more.
Yeah, all that good ticket money you're losin', Smoky Bear! a driver commented with a chuckle.
I didn't notice the tags. Why the hell drive a cement truck in from Montana? Coots wondered. Those guys just didn't fit in.
Maybe he got it cheap, the cop thought, finishing his coffee. I don't have anything on the sheet about a hot one. Damn, I wonder if anyone ever stole one of those?
Not that I heard of-zap! Coots said. The current shot was of smart bombs. At least it can't hurt much.
Y'all have a good one, the cop said on the way out. He entered his Chevy patrol car and headed back to the highway, then decided to give the cement truck a look. Might as well run the tag, he thought. Maybe it was hot. Then he smelled it, too, and to the cop it wasn't the diesel ammonia..? It was a smell he'd always associated with ice cream, having once worked a summer in a plant which made it and also with the smell of propellant in his National Guard cavalry unit. His curiosity aroused, he drove back to the cafe. Excuse me, gentlemen, is that your truck parked over on the edge?
Yeah, why? Brown asked. We do something wrong?
It was his hands that betrayed him. The cop saw them twitch.