Chapter One
The Present
The Philippines
Jungle surrounded the Philippine army firebase, a dark
wall of menacing sounds and shadows in the grayness of
evening. The sounds of men preparing for battle -- the
clank of metal on metal, the grunts of rucksacks being
lifted, the murmur of quiet talk between comrades -- was
muted compared to the noise of the jungle.
"Too close."
Major Jim Vaughn turned to the man at his side, his top
noncommissioned officer and his brother-in-law, Sergeant
Major Frank Jenkins. "What?"
Jenkins nodded at the wall of trees. "Field of fire is too
short. You could get RPGs right there and blast the crap
out of this place."
Vaughn had noted the same thing as soon as they
landed. "Let's be glad this is our last time here."
"Damn civilians," Jenkins muttered.
" 'Ours is not to question why -- ' " Vaughn began.
" 'Ours is but to do and die,' " Jenkins finished. "Not
the most cheery saying in the world, Jim."
Vaughn shrugged. "Okay. But this beats taking tolls on the
Jersey Turnpike."
"Not by much," Jenkins said. "And maybe I'll be one of
those toll takers next month. I'm so short -- "
Vaughn held up a hand while he laughed. "Not another 'I'm
so short' joke, Frank. Please. My sister knows how short
you are."
Jenkins frowned. He reached into one of his pockets and
retrieved a worn photograph of a young woman, tenderly
placed it to his lips and gave it a light kiss. "You ain't
so young anymore, babe, but you still got it."
He said the words to himself, but Vaughn could hear. He
had seen his brother-in-law enact this ritual five times
before with his older sister's photo, and it always made
him uneasy. Jenkins slid the picture back into his pocket,
technically a violation of the rules requiring they
be "sterile" for this mission, carrying nothing that
indicated in any way who they were, but Vaughn didn't say
anything.
Jenkins turned to Vaughn. "Let's get ready."
Both reached down and lifted the MP-5 submachine guns
lying on top of a mound of gear. Made by Heckler & Koch of
Germany, they were the standard now for most Special
Operations forces. These were specially modified with
integrated laser sights, and had telescoping stocks
allowing the entire weapon to be collapsed to a very short
and efficient length or extended for more accurate firing.
The worn sheen of the metal indicated they had been
handled quite a bit.
Like warriors throughout the ages, the two men geared up
for battle. The process was the same -- all that had
changed was the actual gear. In some ways, with the advent
of advanced body armor technology, soldiers were harkening
back to the days of knights, when protection was almost as
important as weapons. It was a constant race between
offense and defense, an axiom of military technology.
Vaughn was tall, just over six feet, and slender, wiry.
The uniform draped over his body consisted of plain green
jungle fatigues without any markings or insignia. Over the
shirt, he slid on a sleeveless vest of body armor securing
it tightly around his torso with Velcro straps. It was
lightweight but still added noticeably to his bulk. On top
of that went a combat harness festooned with holders for
extra magazines for the submachine guns, grenades, FM
radio, and knife. He wrapped the thin wire for the radio
around the vest, placed the earplug in his left ear, and
strapped the mike around his throat.
Vaughn slid an automatic pistol into a holster strapped on
the outside of his left thigh. Two spare magazines for the
pistol went on either side of the holster. Two more spare
magazines were strapped around his right thigh in a
specially designed holster. He then pulled hard composite
armor guards up to just below his elbow, protecting his
forearms from elbow to wrist, followed by thin green Nomex
flight gloves. Whether handling hot weapons, forcing his
way through thick jungle, or simply for protection against
falling, he had long ago learned to cover the skin on his
hands.
For the final piece of weaponry, he used a loose piece of
Velcro on his combat vest to secure a set of brass
knuckles that had been spray-painted flat black to his
left side.
"You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can't take
Boston out of the boy," Jenkins commented.
"South Boston," Vaughn corrected his team sergeant.
Jenkins had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin and always
found his wife's and brother-in-law's stories of big city
life strange. As strange as Vaughn found Jenkins's stories
of farm life.
"If you got to use those," Jenkins said, pointing at the
brass knuckles, "you're in some deep shit."
"That's the idea." Vaughn looked over at him. "You carry
that pig sticker everywhere," he said, referring to the
machete Jenkins had just finished securing behind his
right shoulder, the handle sticking up for easy access.
"It's for firewood," Jenkins replied.
"Yeah, right."
Finally came a black Kevlar helmet, not the same
distinctive shape the rest of the United States Army wore,
but simply a semiround pot with a bracket bolted to the
front. Out of a plastic case, Vaughn removed a set of
night vision goggles and latched them onto the bracket,
leaving the goggles in the up and off position so they
wouldn't obscure his vision. The amount of gear he wore
limited his exposed flesh to a small patch between his
eyebrows and chin, which was already covered with dark
green camouflage paste. The entire effect was greatly
dehumanizing, making the men seem like machines, not flesh
and blood.
A third, similarly dressed figure walked up in the dimming
light. "Sergeant Major, don't you think your wife knows
how short you really are?"
"Shut up," Jenkins growled, but without anger. The same
jokes now for months -- it was almost a ritual. One that
Vaughn wished would end.