Pappas' eyes were open, his back straight, his arms crossed and a fierce expression was fixed on his face. For all that he was, in reality, asleep.
It was after midnight as the swaying bus ground to a halt at the MP guarded entrance to Fort Indiantown Gap. The bus driver had wondered as they approached about the red glow of flames in the distance, but the greeting from the MPs drove all thought of it out of his head. He leaned out of the window to ask where the recruits and their humorless sergeant were supposed to go, but before he could ask the question the MP answered it for him.
"I don't know where the fuckers are supposed to go, who they are supposed to report to or what the fuck to do with them. Are there any more questions?" the MP private asked in an angry and aggressive tone.
Pappas' eyes flicked open and before he was fully awake he had exited the bus and had the MP dangling by his BDU collar from one hand.
"What the fuck kind of answer is that you pissant?" he raged. The MP's companion started awake and clawed at his Berretta.
"Draw your weapon and you will be splitting rocks in Leavenworth on Thursday, asshole!" said the infuriated Pappas turning his fulminating gaze on the companion. On top of the difficulties of the trip the attitudes of the MPs had just been too much. The backup quit clawing at his sidearm and popped to attention.
"Now," said Pappas as his fury cooled slightly, "what the fuck is your problem, Private?" He lowered the MP so that his feet contacted the ground without actually releasing him.
The MP had had his share of problems lately and plenty of opportunity to practice hand-to-hand combat. But he had never had anyone manhandle him so quickly or completely and the experience was shattering. The NCO in gray silks, which designated him as one of the nearly untouchable Fleet Strike Force, was a mountain of muscle. The dim lighting and red flickering of distant flames turned him into a surreal figure of almost primeval strength and fury, like a volcano on two trunk-like legs. The private did a quick reevaluation of his environment.
"Sergeant," he was definitely a sergeant, although it was hard to read the Fleet stripes on his shoulder, "we got a lot of problems . . ."
"I don't want to hear problems, private, I want to hear answers."
"Sergeant, I don't have any. I'm sorry." The private's face was screwed into near tears and Pappas suddenly had to reevaluate the situation as well.
"What the fuck is going on?" he asked releasing the private and smoothing the fabric of his BDU collar. He finally turned his head to look at the distant fires. "What the fuck is going on?" he asked again, shaking his head.
"Sarge, Sergeant," the MP corrected quickly, "the fuckin' place is out of control." He stopped and shook his head.
"Sergeant," said the backup, "I'm sorry we were so fucked up on our answer. But we really don't know where to send your troops."
The original MP nodded his head in agreement. "The first thing is last week they had to move a bunch of the units 'cause their barracks got burned out in the riots. Then they lost some of the troops and the rest were shacking up in open barracks. When they tried to move 'em there was riots over that. An' whenever we break up a riot, the rioters tend to fire the trailers when they're runnin' away. So, where youse was supposed to go might not even be there . . ."
"Holy shit," whispered the former Marine. He could hear the troops getting off the bus behind him and raised his voice. "Get me Stewart, Ampele, Adams and Michaels." The squad leaders. "The rest of you yardbirds get back on the bus!"
While the squad leaders assembled he watched the flickering flames at a position of parade rest. He gently blew his lips in thought. "You guys getting any help?" he asked.
"Not much, Sergeant," said the MP. "There's about three or four battalions that have their troops under order, but even they have problems. And we can't really use them for riot suppression, 'cause we can't tell the sheep from the goats." The private stopped and shook his head. "It's a real rat-fuck, Sergeant."
"Gunny."
"Okay, it's a real rat-fuck, Gunny." The MP chuckled.
Pappas wheeled on the assembled squad leaders. "This is a fuck-up, folks, but it's one we gotta work with. Apparently the Army has lost control of its units." He turned back to the MP. "How many units are we talkin' about?"
"Two divisions, some attached Corp units and the Fleet Strike battalion. We're havin' most of our problems out of the support units and a couple of the infantry battalions, though. The problem is that most of the senior officers and NCOs haven't got here yet, so all we got is a bunch of fuckin' recruits and castoffs from other units. If we had a full officer and NCO Corp we'd be okay, at least that is what our provost says, but until all the officers and NCOs get here and we start havin' some court-martials it's just gonna continue like this."
Pappas nodded his head and continued. "Here is how we're gonna handle it. First, we ain't takin' the bus into that rat-fuck. So we gotta walk. But we ain't gonna try to find where we're supposed to be loaded down with baggage. So, Ampele, First squad is baggage guard."
"Gunny . . . !" the large private started to protest.
"It's more important than you think. We're gonna unload all the baggage here." He looked around. "Down by the stream." He gestured with his chin. "Hunker down and wait for support. When we find our quarters and unit I'll send back transport and most of the platoon to pick up the baggage. But be aware that you could be attacked." He looked at the MPs and they nodded.
"Yeah," said the now fully awake backup. "We've had groups out here before. If you get hit, we'll back you up," he continued, "but we can't fire without being fired on," he finished sourly.
"So be prepared for anything. I'm leaving you here because you're the one I trust to keep his head and hold onto his people best. Don't bitch about a fuckin' compliment. And you better guard our shit good." Pappas thought for a moment and decided to ask the question. "Umm, have they briefed you guys on something about Fleet Strike being under different rules . . ."
"Yeah, Gunny," answered the first MP. "You guys are hands off. Fortunately other than fights in the barracks area Fleet Strike hasn't caused a lot of problems." He paused and thought about it for a moment. "Well, for us," he amended. "CID's another story."
"Okay," said Pappas, wondering about the comment. "We're gonna take the other three squads into that," he gestured with his chin, "in movement to contact formation." He puffed his cheeks in thought.
"I'll take three members of first squad as a headquarters group. Move slow, stroll. But keep your eyes open and looking around. Designate one team for primary forward movement and one team for security. Have buddies carry on conversation, don't bunch but don't get scattered. If one squad gets into something they can't handle, the other two pile on. If we get bogged down in someone else's turf we are dog-meat, so kick their ass, don't pee on them, we have to cut through any opposition fast." He took a proffered map from the MP and had a quick conversation.
"Okay," he continued, looking at the map in the subdued light and wishing for a set of Milspecs from the equipment they were going to be issued. "We're probably way over by the old heliport right at the base of the mountains." He glanced into the darkness. "Right by the fires." He shook his head.
"Stewart," he turned to the diminutive private. "Second squad has point. Don't do any looting along the way; it's not only against regulation, we don't have fuckin' time. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," said the young man. He stood at parade rest, his face as serious as a statue.
"You don't call me 'sir' anymore, Stewart," said Pappas, dryly. "It looks like I'm back to working for a living," he sighed deeply. "Well, it can't be worse than Hue, right?" He thought about that for a moment. "Do they have firearms?" he asked the MP, deep in memory.
The private winced. "Not many. We generally take those away as fast as they turn up. That is the one thing that really lets us drop a load of hurt on their head. Lots of clubs and knives though," he warned.
Pappas nodded his head. "Pick up anything that looks like a weapon as you go. The order of movement will be second, fourth, third. I'll be moving between second and fourth. Third, Adams, keep an eye on our backtrack. If we're being tracked we need to swing around and nutcracker them."
"Right, Gunny," said the former drill corporal.
"Okay, remember, try to look casual as possible, but keep in sight of the other squads. Go get your people briefed." He paused for a moment and shook his head in resignation. The expression on his face was lugubrious. "What a fuckin' nightmare."
"We can handle it," said Stewart, confidently. "We've got the training, we've got the teamwork and we've got the leadership." He smiled at the gunnery sergeant, obviously wondering why he was so shaken by the situation.
Pappas turned calm eyes on the private and smiled cheerfully. Since the situation was totally screwed up, Stewart instantly realized that he had said something the sergeant considered particularly boneheaded.
"Stewart, you are an idiot," he said, gently. The sergeant gestured towards the distant rebel units. "In a year or two we are going to be depending on those fuckers for support. Think of it this way. What would happen if the Posleen landed tomorrow?"
"Oh." The private looked back at the fires and scratched his head. He blew out his cheeks and rocked back and forth at parade rest. "Yeah."
Pappas had not seen Stewart pick up the two lengths of broom handle. But the way he twirled them in both hands bespoke forms of training that surprised the veteran NCO. The aggressive drunk had not even had time to cry out before he was down and being dragged into the darkness by two other members of second squad. That obstacle overcome, the platoon continued its slow movement into the maelstrom.
It seemed as though the world was on fire. Wood and siding ripped from the trailers that made up the majority of the barracks were piled in courtyards and parade grounds burning. The substance of the soldiers' homes was being consumed to warm the autumn night.
Small groups wandered everywhere, some of them bearing bottles, others smoking fragrant substances. From the darkness a squeal told of other pleasures being dispensed. Since it sounded consensual, Pappas ignored it. He frankly was not sure what he would do if it were not consensual. The mission was to find and join up with their unit. Once they were attached things would get easier. Or so he hoped.
He gestured for second squad to stop and the platoon to form a perimeter. The troops dropped into position in the shadowed area, a variety of bludgeons clutched in their hands, as the squad leaders joined him at the center. He pulled the map out of his cargo pocket and gestured for them to look at it in the flickering light of distant fires.
"To get to our initial objective, which is where the MPs think the battalion is at, we have to pass through there." He gestured through the buildings at a parade ground. The point was marked on the map as a former heliport. From where they crouched in the darkness it was obvious that the area was some sort of meeting ground. There was a giant party in full swing with numerous bonfires and large groups were wandering around. There were easily a thousand people, males and females, in the area.
"We might not run into any opposition, but, then again, we might. We could swing around, but it would take us well out of our way and sooner or later we're gonna run out of luck." He gestured to where the drunk was sleeping off his concussion. "I am open to suggestions."
"How 'bout we just run through, like we're doing PT?" asked Michaels. "They're less likely to bother a formation, don't you think, Gunny?"
Stewart snorted. "See anybody doing PT?" he asked.
Adams shook his head. "I gotta go with Stewart on this one, man. I don't think anybody around here does PT. We'd stick out like a sore thumb."
"And if we bunch up, we might look like a threat," pointed out Stewart. He had his eyes narrowed.
"Okay, we'll —" started Pappas.
"Gunny, sorry, can I say something?" the little private asked. A few days before the concept of interrupting his drill instructor would have been unthinkable. But not only did the situation call for ideas, the conditions they were in were a weird form of home to Stewart.
"Okay," said the gunny, "go ahead."
"I think me and the boys could draw some of them off," the private said. His eyes were on the distant party as his brow creased in thought. "We could probably open up a hole, kind of a corridor, and the rest of you could slip through."
"How?" Pappas watched the private thinking. He had already recognized that while he had the recruit beat on experience and knowledge, the private was light-years ahead of him on guile and cunning.
"By joining them," continued Stewart. He seemed oblivious to the sergeant's close regard. "Look, just about all of us in second are from a barrio," continued the little private. "We're all home-boys; this is like, home, for us. We'd be in the middle of that and loving every minute of it," he gestured to the party, "if we didn't have an idea why not." He turned and looked at the NCO with newfound respect in his eyes. "Your speech makes more sense now than ever."
The NCO nodded in understanding. "Go on."
"But we can . . . infiltrate that party. I've got some pretty good attention getters, circus tricks I've learned. I can attract some of them around me and the boys. That will open up the hole you need."
"And if it don't work?" asked Pappas.
"We all run like hell," smiled the private.
Pappas gazed at him thoughtfully. "When will you get to the unit?" he asked. The suspicion was obvious.
Stewart shook his head in reproach. "Gunny, I ain't saying we won't do a little partying. We're gonna have to to blend in. But we'll rejoin the unit, all of us, by dawn. Getting out will be harder than getting in. Drawing off their attention from you will be the easiest part."
Pappas nodded his head and regarded the private sagely. "Uh, huh." He puffed out his cheeks in thought. "You know Stewart, some day I'm going to have to ask you how you got your entire street gang through Fleet Strike's personnel filters and into my basic platoon." He paused. "Intact."
Stewart smiled thinly. "But not tonight," he said determinedly.
"Not tonight," the NCO agreed. "However, I'm not going to trust to your streetwise for everything. Once we pass through the area we'll take up over-watch until I think you're doing okay. Don't hurry, we'll be there as long as we need to."
"I'll be fine, Sergeant," said the private, with quiet confidence.
"Okay, then you won't mind if we watch?" Pappas said with a smile.
Stewart shook his head in resignation. "Whatever, boss."
"Okay," said the NCO, "time to play."
Stewart wiped his hands surreptitiously on his silks then stepped forward and slapped the broad shoulder of the soldier in front of him.
"Hola, 'migo, ¿dónde 'stá el licor?" The job was going to require some high-proof spirits.
The big Hispanic soldier turned with a snarl. "Que chingadero quiere saber, cameron?"
"Hey, we just got here. I need a drink." A twenty appeared as if by magic in Stewart's hand. The squad behind him had taken on the standard swagger, hands thrust into their belts or in pockets, hips thrust out, looking around. Just a bunch of home-boys looking for a party. Stewart had thrust the two broomsticks into the back of his jacket so that they jutted out the neck. In a pinch they would be in action in an instant.
The big soldier took one look at the gang and rethought his approach. He had his own group of bullies to call on, but the time was not right for a fight against unknown odds. He was pretty sure he could break the shrimp like a twig, but you never knew. He looked awful confident.
"It's hard to find, man," the big soldier said, taking a swallow of the raw tequila. "Maracone over by the bleachers, he usually got some."
"Gracias," said Stewart, the twenty suddenly sprouting from the pocket of the Hispanic soldier.
"De nada," said the trooper and turned back to his buddies.
"Anything?" whispered Wilson.
"Had a shiv," said Stewart quietly, "and some kind of pistol."
"Had," smiled the second in command.
"Had," said Stewart, with a complete lack of humor. He was totally concentrated on the mission. "We're gonna do a deal."
Even at halfway across the field the dealer was obvious, a ratty little private surrounded by heavies and a group of female soldiers with their uniforms cut down to nothing but midriff tops and shorts. They must have been freezing in the cool, moist autumn night.
"Okay," said Wilson, doing an automatic sweep of the area for threats. Then he checked to see that the rest of the squad was in position, looking out. They were and he nodded to himself in satisfaction; everything was rikky-tik as the gunny would say.
"Then I'm gonna do the sword swallower routine," continued Stewart. He was thinking about future plans and tactics while Wilson handled the present and security. They had developed the relationship as a survival necessity in the barrio, never realizing that they had simply reinvented the officer/NCO continuum.
"Got it."
"Here." He slipped the private the small pistol. Using Stewart as a shield, the private quickly checked the .25 caliber automatic. "Cover me."
Stewart stepped toward the dealer. One of the bodyguards stepped in front of him only to be waved aside. It was a pro forma demonstration of power that Stewart noticed no more than the wind. Now that he was inside the perimeter the dealer and at least two guards were dead even without Wilson's backup. These guys are such fucking amateurs, he thought.
"Hola," he grinned, "whacha got?"
"What you want?" asked the dealer in a bored voice. "We got about everything."
"Need some high-test booze, man. We're just in from basic and got us a powerful thirst!" He grinned maniacally, a stupid little basic trainee way in over his head. Yeah, that's it.
"That's pretty expensive, man," said the dealer. "Booze is hard to get. The fuckin' MPs keep raiding my stash."
"Hey," said Stewart, whipping out a wad of bills, "I got nothin' but money, man. You got some high-proof tequila?"
"Sure," smiled the ratty little soldier. He gestured to one of the girls who reached in a spray-painted ammunition box and pulled out an unmarked bottle. "That's sixty."
"Jesus," said Stewart, shaking his head, "that is steep." He counted out the bills and took the bottle. One sip was all it took to ensure that there was sufficient alcohol in the mix for his plan. "How! Time to Party!"
"Yeah," the dealer said sourly. "Somewhere's else, I got other customers."
"Sure, man, later." Stewart smiled again and walked back to the squad.
"Sniper on the top of the bleachers," whispered Wilson. "I can't see the rifle, but it's there somewhere."
"Can you take him from the other end?"
"Not with this fuckin' little Astra. Maybe you, but even then not with the first shot. And somebody's already got that end staked out."
"No problemo. People are always willing to recognize talent," Stewart smiled.
"You are a fuckin' nut, Manuel."
"My name is James Stewart. Don't ever forget that."
"Sure, and I'm the king of Siam."
"Handkerchiefs," Stewart said without comment, holding out his hand. The squad handed over the items and he tied them on the ends of the broken broom handles. Doused with the two-hundred-proof tequila they were torches waiting for a match.
"Here goes nothing," he said and walked towards the group that had staked out the section of bleachers away from the area's single dealer.
"Hey, folks," he said to the group of white soldiers. They watched him approach suspiciously. He nodded at the obvious leader, a heavyset balding sergeant with rolls of fat on his neck.
"You know what this party needs," Stewart asked in a loud happy voice.
"A fuckin' idiot?" asked the leader. His group laughed at the rough humor.
What an Einstein, thought Stewart. "No, some entertainment!" He hopped up on the bleachers and took a swig of the raw whiskey. With a flick of a lighter he spit it back out in a cloud of fire. The belch of dragon's flame lit the area and there were gasps from the group on the bleachers.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out to the surroundings, "welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth! I will shock and amaze you with my powers of prestidigitation and psychic abilities! My powers know no bounds!" As he spoke he whipped out the batons, lit them and began twirling.
"Okay," said Pappas, "that's the signal. Get ready to move."
The wait as Stewart moved into position had been an eternity, but now that the show had started the crowd was, in fact, moving. He decided to move with it.
"Fourth, head towards Stewart, try to get as close as possible. Third, head into the middle of the field. When Fourth is in position, head for the barracks." He shook his head. "Fuckin' everybody and their brother is headed for that little idiot."
It was the largest crowd he had ever performed for; even the dealer and his bodyguards had moved over. These people must be really hard up for entertainment. On the other hand, it had gone well. The mental act always amazed people and the tequila had held out long enough to do both the juggling act and the fire-swallowing.
But he was down to magic tricks and it was about time for the big finale. He gestured at Wilson who rolled up his sleeves. He positioned himself across from Stewart and looked toward the squad. One of the members tossed him a knife and he tossed it to Stewart. Stewart tossed it back and they started a two-man juggle. One of the other members of the squad started to sing a well-known dance tune and they began dancing up and down the bleachers spinning and doing handstands as the squad tossed more and more items into the juggle. After fifteen minutes, Stewart found himself exchanging fourteen items, including the burning torches and two knives, and knew it was time to call it quits. With a nod at Wilson he flipped himself upward one-handed and caught the fountain to complete the act to thunderous applause.
"Gunny," said Adams, working his way into the packed crowd. "We got more problems."