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Authors: Tom Kratman
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annoyance at the assumption she needed help with feeding people.
Then again, I've never cooked for even a dozen men, and more keep coming. Maybe I need to listen to Sergeant Island, or even let him take charge.
"Phillie," Stauer added, "Master Sergeant Island's bible is the 1910 Manual for Army Cooks."
"All the wisdom of the world, in one volume," Island said righteously. "Everything since is either mere commentary or obvious decay. The 1896 manual is, of course, very good, too, but a bit dated."
To a third, a big, bruiser of an obvious ex-soldier, he said, "Terry, I'm turning over my lodge to you and your boys. It's one hundred and seventeen acres with a log cabin down in Somerset, about twenty-five miles from here. I've already drawn you up directions. Go upstairs and pick whatever weapons I've got you think might be useful to train with until we have something more concrete for you to work with. At the lodge there are four Class IIIs, all suppressed, one Sterling, one Uzi, one Smith and Wesson Model 76, and one MP-5. There's also a single PVS-7"-night vision goggles- "with enough batteries for . . . well . . . a while. Ammunition for all of them is in the cabinets upstairs." To the last newcomer, Stauer said, "Ed, one of my guys is working on finding us a ship or ships and a sub. He's in the kitchen; answers to ‘Gordo.' Go figure it out."
"But I still don't understand what the mission is?" Ed Kosciusko said.
"Ah, that's easy. We're going to invade somebody by sea, land, and air, destroy a small navy at anchor, maybe blow some bridges, smash a minor air force on the ground, and in general have the time of our lives."
CHAPTER SIX
We cannot blame colonialism and imperialism
for this tragedy. We who fought against
these things now practice them.
-Joshua Nkomo
D-150, Port Harcourt International Airport, Nigeria
The ambulance doors were open, showing one weakly thrashing body, with sweat simply pouring off of it, a clustering of vomit about mouth and chin, emanating incoherent moans. Even in Port Harcourt, the stench arising from the body was something noticeable.
To either side of the stretcher-borne young man, seated along the walls facing inward, were six other men, all wearing masks and latex gloves. Four of these were Labaan and his cousins. Their bags were piled toward the front of the ambulance. Labaan, seated at the right rear, passed over his and three other passports to a stout customs inspector wearing a green beret and a short sleeved, gray dress jacket with epaulettes and sundry insignia Labaan had not a clue to the significance of. He actually rather doubted the insignia had much significance.
The inspector fanned through the passports quickly. He couldn't, after all, so much as see the faces of those purporting to be their owners. As for the fifth man, the one on the stretcher . . .
"His is in his pocket," Labaan said. "We were afraid . . . "
The inspector's eyes darted to the softly moaning body. He answered, in clear, clipped Nigerian English, with just that trace of upper class British accent, "I understand completely. But you see, I'll have to explain to my supervisor . . . "
Labaan reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew an envelope. "This is a letter of explanation from our captain," he said. The envelope was much fatter than any simple letter needed to be. It was unsealed. The inspector handed back the passports and took the envelope.
The inspector opened the loose flap and ran his thumb along the top of the stack of bills contained therein. About two thousand Euros. Half for my boss . . . no, a quarter for my boss. After all, he didn't have to take his life in his hands getting close to this diseased creature. Then, too, my job is keeping undesirable things out of the country. This one wants to leave, or would if he were able, and so I am just doing my job in helping him, and them, leave.
The inspector glanced over the letter. Good, it says nothing about money. He then took the
Then again, I've never cooked for even a dozen men, and more keep coming. Maybe I need to listen to Sergeant Island, or even let him take charge.
"Phillie," Stauer added, "Master Sergeant Island's bible is the 1910 Manual for Army Cooks."
"All the wisdom of the world, in one volume," Island said righteously. "Everything since is either mere commentary or obvious decay. The 1896 manual is, of course, very good, too, but a bit dated."
To a third, a big, bruiser of an obvious ex-soldier, he said, "Terry, I'm turning over my lodge to you and your boys. It's one hundred and seventeen acres with a log cabin down in Somerset, about twenty-five miles from here. I've already drawn you up directions. Go upstairs and pick whatever weapons I've got you think might be useful to train with until we have something more concrete for you to work with. At the lodge there are four Class IIIs, all suppressed, one Sterling, one Uzi, one Smith and Wesson Model 76, and one MP-5. There's also a single PVS-7"-night vision goggles- "with enough batteries for . . . well . . . a while. Ammunition for all of them is in the cabinets upstairs." To the last newcomer, Stauer said, "Ed, one of my guys is working on finding us a ship or ships and a sub. He's in the kitchen; answers to ‘Gordo.' Go figure it out."
"But I still don't understand what the mission is?" Ed Kosciusko said.
"Ah, that's easy. We're going to invade somebody by sea, land, and air, destroy a small navy at anchor, maybe blow some bridges, smash a minor air force on the ground, and in general have the time of our lives."
CHAPTER SIX
We cannot blame colonialism and imperialism
for this tragedy. We who fought against
these things now practice them.
-Joshua Nkomo
D-150, Port Harcourt International Airport, Nigeria
The ambulance doors were open, showing one weakly thrashing body, with sweat simply pouring off of it, a clustering of vomit about mouth and chin, emanating incoherent moans. Even in Port Harcourt, the stench arising from the body was something noticeable.
To either side of the stretcher-borne young man, seated along the walls facing inward, were six other men, all wearing masks and latex gloves. Four of these were Labaan and his cousins. Their bags were piled toward the front of the ambulance. Labaan, seated at the right rear, passed over his and three other passports to a stout customs inspector wearing a green beret and a short sleeved, gray dress jacket with epaulettes and sundry insignia Labaan had not a clue to the significance of. He actually rather doubted the insignia had much significance.
The inspector fanned through the passports quickly. He couldn't, after all, so much as see the faces of those purporting to be their owners. As for the fifth man, the one on the stretcher . . .
"His is in his pocket," Labaan said. "We were afraid . . . "
The inspector's eyes darted to the softly moaning body. He answered, in clear, clipped Nigerian English, with just that trace of upper class British accent, "I understand completely. But you see, I'll have to explain to my supervisor . . . "
Labaan reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew an envelope. "This is a letter of explanation from our captain," he said. The envelope was much fatter than any simple letter needed to be. It was unsealed. The inspector handed back the passports and took the envelope.
The inspector opened the loose flap and ran his thumb along the top of the stack of bills contained therein. About two thousand Euros. Half for my boss . . . no, a quarter for my boss. After all, he didn't have to take his life in his hands getting close to this diseased creature. Then, too, my job is keeping undesirable things out of the country. This one wants to leave, or would if he were able, and so I am just doing my job in helping him, and them, leave.
The inspector glanced over the letter. Good, it says nothing about money. He then took the
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