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Authors: Joel Rosenberg
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desert sands. I vomited all the way down.
"Barfing seems to be a way of life for you, Emmy."
'I've got a sensitive stomach. You want me to go on, or not?"
"Go on."
VI
By the time Brubaker had made it down, both Manny and I had our gear neatly arranged on our clear plastic tarpaulins, as the bastard had ordered. Each of us had:
One parachute, together with rigging and quick-release straps
A first-aid kit, complete with drugs
One plastic-handled survival knife
Five one-liter plastic water containers
Eighteen wooden matches, their heads coveted with paraffin
One fire kit
Two two-meter lengths of clear plastic tubing
One mylar tarp
One clear plastic tarp
Eight mealbricks, each fully dehydrated and sealed in plastic
One plastic cup
One instruction manual, sealed in plastic
Everything was sealed in plastic. Plastic is the Navy's unofficial mascot, sort of like the way the Service has olive drab.
I didn't know why they kept the instruction manual sealed for a desert drop—it's supposed to be for jungle environments, where the main problem is to delay everything rotting.
Brubaker smiled as he swaggered over, his own kit properly slung, his chute tucked under his arm.
"First thing, rich boys, is to make sure that things don't go too easy for you." Over our cut-off protests, he scooped up both of our chutes and instruction manuals and piled them on top of his chute, several meters away on the hot sands.
Digging into his pack, he came out with a small plastic vial, lit its fuse, and tossed it onto the pile.
The chutes and packs burned with a thick black smoke; Manny and I worked our way around so that the wind was at our backs.
"Good. Now, you two have a problem," Brubaker said. "We're not due for pickup for three days. You need, in this heat, at least a liter of water per day."
And we each had five liters. Did he really think we were going to let him take the water away from us?
I looked at Manny. He gave an expansive Latin shrug, as though to say, I'd rather get a million demerits than die of thirst.
Good man. I walked over to my gear and began to pack it, Manny following me.
"Easy, there, Mark."
I stood up straight, gesturing at Manny to keep packing. "Sir. Plebe von du Mark requests permission to speak informally, sir ."
"Granted."
"You're not confiscating our water. No way."
Brubaker smiled. "Agreed."
I'd never seen anyone move so quickly. One moment, he stood there empty-handed; the next he had a wiregun in his hands, and had drilled through all our water bottles.
As we stood there, shocked, our water drained out into the sand. I leaped over to the containers and tried to hold the holes shut with my fingers, but there were just too many of the fine holes; all I got was fingers full of wet sand.
I drew my knife and stood.
"Don't even think about it, rich boy." Brubaker smiled at me. "In the field, assaulting a superior officer doesn't buy you a court-martial, not when the officer in question has a sidearm. It buys you about two centimeters of wire in the head."
I didn't think that he'd actually shoot us out of malice, but he might in self-defense. I clipped the knife to my belt.
"It's really simple, rich boys. Between your belt canteens and what you have there, you can improvise a water source." He snickered. "Matter of fact, I order you to do so."
Neither holstering his pistol nor taking his eyes off us, he reached over his shoulder and pulled a tube out of his pack. He sipped on it as he seated himself on the ground.
"Don't worry about me," he said around the tube, patting his pack. "I've got a nice ten-liter jug in here. I'll be curious to see if you can do it. Or if you die of thirst."
The Dutchman snickered. "That's an easy one—improvising a water source from what you had there? A baby could do it."
"Right. If he knew the trick. Which we didn't. Either of us."
He nodded. "I take it you hadn't read the manual."
"We hadn't had our hands on the manual until we were handed our kits
"Barfing seems to be a way of life for you, Emmy."
'I've got a sensitive stomach. You want me to go on, or not?"
"Go on."
VI
By the time Brubaker had made it down, both Manny and I had our gear neatly arranged on our clear plastic tarpaulins, as the bastard had ordered. Each of us had:
One parachute, together with rigging and quick-release straps
A first-aid kit, complete with drugs
One plastic-handled survival knife
Five one-liter plastic water containers
Eighteen wooden matches, their heads coveted with paraffin
One fire kit
Two two-meter lengths of clear plastic tubing
One mylar tarp
One clear plastic tarp
Eight mealbricks, each fully dehydrated and sealed in plastic
One plastic cup
One instruction manual, sealed in plastic
Everything was sealed in plastic. Plastic is the Navy's unofficial mascot, sort of like the way the Service has olive drab.
I didn't know why they kept the instruction manual sealed for a desert drop—it's supposed to be for jungle environments, where the main problem is to delay everything rotting.
Brubaker smiled as he swaggered over, his own kit properly slung, his chute tucked under his arm.
"First thing, rich boys, is to make sure that things don't go too easy for you." Over our cut-off protests, he scooped up both of our chutes and instruction manuals and piled them on top of his chute, several meters away on the hot sands.
Digging into his pack, he came out with a small plastic vial, lit its fuse, and tossed it onto the pile.
The chutes and packs burned with a thick black smoke; Manny and I worked our way around so that the wind was at our backs.
"Good. Now, you two have a problem," Brubaker said. "We're not due for pickup for three days. You need, in this heat, at least a liter of water per day."
And we each had five liters. Did he really think we were going to let him take the water away from us?
I looked at Manny. He gave an expansive Latin shrug, as though to say, I'd rather get a million demerits than die of thirst.
Good man. I walked over to my gear and began to pack it, Manny following me.
"Easy, there, Mark."
I stood up straight, gesturing at Manny to keep packing. "Sir. Plebe von du Mark requests permission to speak informally, sir ."
"Granted."
"You're not confiscating our water. No way."
Brubaker smiled. "Agreed."
I'd never seen anyone move so quickly. One moment, he stood there empty-handed; the next he had a wiregun in his hands, and had drilled through all our water bottles.
As we stood there, shocked, our water drained out into the sand. I leaped over to the containers and tried to hold the holes shut with my fingers, but there were just too many of the fine holes; all I got was fingers full of wet sand.
I drew my knife and stood.
"Don't even think about it, rich boy." Brubaker smiled at me. "In the field, assaulting a superior officer doesn't buy you a court-martial, not when the officer in question has a sidearm. It buys you about two centimeters of wire in the head."
I didn't think that he'd actually shoot us out of malice, but he might in self-defense. I clipped the knife to my belt.
"It's really simple, rich boys. Between your belt canteens and what you have there, you can improvise a water source." He snickered. "Matter of fact, I order you to do so."
Neither holstering his pistol nor taking his eyes off us, he reached over his shoulder and pulled a tube out of his pack. He sipped on it as he seated himself on the ground.
"Don't worry about me," he said around the tube, patting his pack. "I've got a nice ten-liter jug in here. I'll be curious to see if you can do it. Or if you die of thirst."
The Dutchman snickered. "That's an easy one—improvising a water source from what you had there? A baby could do it."
"Right. If he knew the trick. Which we didn't. Either of us."
He nodded. "I take it you hadn't read the manual."
"We hadn't had our hands on the manual until we were handed our kits
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