Without remorse - Tom Clancy [257]
'Lots of college kids,' Franks replied, proudly watching his men. 'Sometimes I think the deck division's as smart as my wardroom.' Which was an entirely forgivable hyperbole. He wanted to say something else, the same thing that everyone was thinking: What do you suppose the chances are? He didn't voice the thought. It would be the worst kind of bad luck. Even thinking it loudly might harm the mission, but hard as he tried he couldn't stop his mind from forming the words.
In their quarters, the Marines were assembled around a sand-table model of the objective. They'd already gone over the mission once and were doing so again. The process would be repeated once more before lunch, and many times after it, as a whole group and as individual teams. Each man could see everything with his eyes closed, thinking back to the training site at Quantico, reliving the live-fire exercises.
'Captain Albie, sir?' A yeoman came into the compartment. He handed over a clipboard. 'Message from Mr Snake.'
The Captain of Marines grinned. 'Thanks, sailor. You read it?'
The yeoman actually blushed. 'Beg pardon, sir. Yes, I did. Everything's cool.' He hesitated for the moment before adding a dispatch of his own. 'Sir, my department says good luck. Kick some ass, sir.'
'You know, skipper,' Sergeant Irvin said as the yeoman left the space, 'I may never be able to punch out a swabbie again.'
Albie read the dispatch. 'People, our friend is in place. He counts forty-four guards, four officers, one Russian. Normal duty routine, nothing unusual is happening there.' The young captain looked up. "That's it, Marines. We're going in tonight.'
One of the younger Marines reached in his pocket and pulled out a large rubber band. He broke it, marked two eyes on it with his pen, and dropped it atop what they now called Snake Hill. 'That dude,' he said to his team-mates, 'is one cool motherfucker.'
'Y'all remember now,' Irvin warned loudly. 'You fire-support guys remember, he's gonna be pounding down that hill soon as we show up. It wouldn't do to shoot his ass.'
'No prob', Gunny,' the fire-team leader said.
'Marines, let's get some chow. I want you people to rest up this afternoon. Eat your veggies. We want our eyes to work in the dark. Weapons stripped and cleaned for inspection at seventeen-hun'rd,' Albie told them. 'Y'all know what this is all about. Let's stay real cool and we'll get it done.' It was his time to meet again with the chopper crews for a final look at the insertion and extraction plans.
'Aye aye, sir,' Irvin said for the men.
'Hello, Robin.'
'Hi, Kolya,' Zacharias said weakly.
'I'm still working on better food.'
'Would be nice,' the American acknowledged.
'Try this.' Grishanov handed over some black bread his wife had sent him. The climate had already started to put mold on it, which Kolya had trimmed off with a knife. The American wolfed it down anyway. A sip from the Russian's flask helped.
'I'll turn you into a Russian,' the Soviet Air Force colonel said with an unguarded chuckle. 'Vodka and good bread go together. I would like to show you my country.' Just to plant the seed of the idea, in a friendly way, as one man talks to another.
'I have a family, Kolya. God willing -'
'Yes, Robin, God willing.' Or North Vietnam willing, or the Soviet Union willing. Or someone. Somehow he'd save this man, and the others. So many were friends now. He knew so much about them, their marriages, good and bad, their children, their hopes and dreams. These Americans were so strange, so open. 'Also, God willing, if the Chinese decide to bomb Moscow, I have a plan now to stop them.' He unfolded the map and set it on the floor. It was the result of all his talks with this American colleague, everything he had learned and analyzed formulated on a single sheet