Without remorse - Tom Clancy [242]
'But how the hell did you know I was going -'
'We're exchanging signals with a sub. How hard is all that to figure out?'
'How did you know that?' Kelly demanded, knowing the answer even so.
'Ever know a ship that had secrets? Captain's got a yeoman. Yeomen talk,' the machinist explained, completing the reassembly process. 'It makes the weapon about six inches longer, I hope you don't mind.'
Kelly shouldered the carbine. The balance was actually improved somewhat. He preferred a muzzle-heavy weapon since it made for better control.
'Very nice.' He had to try it out, of course. Kelly and the chief headed aft. Along the way the machinist got a discarded wooden box. On the fantail, Kelly slapped a full magazine into the carbine. The chief tossed the wood into the water and stepped back. Kelly shouldered the weapon and squeezed off his first round.
Pop. A moment later came the sound of the bullet hitting the wood, actually somewhat louder than the report of the cartridge. He'd also distinctly heard the working of the bolt mechanism. This chief machinist's mate had done for a high-powered rifle what Kelly himself had done for a .22 pistol. The master craftsman smiled benignly.
'The only hard part's making sure there's enough gas to work the bolt. Try it full auto, sir.'
Kelly did that, rippling off six rounds. It still sounded like gunfire, but the actual noise generated was reduced by at least ninety-five percent, and that meant that no one could hear it beyond a couple hundred yards - as opposed to over a thousand for a normal rifle.
'Good job, Chief.'
'Whatever you're up to, sir, you be careful, hear?' the chief suggested, walking off without another word.
'You bet,' Kelly told the water. He hefted the weapon a little more, and emptied the magazine at the wood before it grew too far off. The bullets converted the wooden box into splinters to the accompaniment of small white fountains of seawater.
You're ready, John.
So was the weather, he learned a few minutes later. Perhaps the world's most sophisticated weather prediction service operated to support air operations over Vietnam - not that the pilots really appreciated or acknowledged it. The senior meteorologist had come across from Constellation with the admirals. He moved his hands across a chart of isobars and the latest satellite photo.
'The showers start tomorrow, and we can expect rain on and off for the next four days. Some heavy stuff. It'll go on until this slow-moving low-pressure area slides up north into China,' the chief petty officer told them.
All of the officers were there. The four flight crews assigned to the mission evaluated this news soberly. Flying a helicopter in heavy weather wasn't exactly fun, and no aviator liked the idea of reduced visibility. But falling rain would also muffle the noise of the aircraft, and reduced visibility worked both ways. The main hazard that concerned them was light antiaircraft guns. Those were optically aimed, and anything that hindered the ability of the crews to hear and see their aircraft made for safety.
'Max winds?' a Cobra pilot asked.
'At worst, gusts to thirty-five or forty knots. It will be a little bumpy aloft, sir.'
'Our main search radar is pretty good for weather surveillance. We can steer you around the worst of it,' Captain Franks offered. The pilots nodded.
'Mr Clark?' Admiral Greer asked.
'Rain sounds good to me. The only way they can spot me on the inbound leg is the bubbles I leave on the surface of the river. Rain'll break that up. It means I can move in daylight if I have to.' Kelly paused, knowing that to go on would merely make the final commitment. 'Skate ready for me?'
'Whenever we say so,' Maxwell answered.
'Then it's "go-mission" on my end, sir.' Kelly could feel his skin go cold. It seemed to contract around his entire body, making him seem smaller somehow. But he'd said it anyway.
Eyes turned to Captain Albie, USMC. A vice admiral, two rear admirals, and an up-and-coming CIA field