deuce for a month now, and this is your third bang-up! I’ll article fifteen your sorry ass, soldier! Get it together!”
Denton decided he was staying out of it. He said nothing, and instead picked up the tape deck from the floor of the cab, inspecting it for damage.
“Sorry, sir,” Brewster said, dropping the funny-guy act. “I let myself get distracted. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s more like it. Now dismount and get up-front. We’re having trouble raising Suez,” Colonel Dewen said, scowling at Brewster before moving on down the line to the next truck in the convoy.
“Come on, bud, step lively or face the wrath of Dewen,” Brewster said, slapping a hand against Denton’s shoulder.
Brewster landed deftly in the soft sand outside, slinging his M-16A2 over his shoulder with practiced ease. Denton slid out the opposite side of the cab with a little less luck, catching a camera strap on the door and cursing as he struggled to untangle it. He met up with Brewster in front of the vehicle.
“What’s this all about?” Denton asked, wiping sweat and dust from his forehead. The convoy had ground to a halt all along its mighty length and soldiers were climbing out of vehicles in confusion.
“Don’t know,” Brewster said. “Hey! Darin! What’s the Sitrep?”
“The Sitrep is this sand blows camel balls, and your mother’s blowin’ em, too, Brewster, you honkey bastard!” came the shouted reply from a few trucks over.
“That means he doesn’t know,” Brewster translated.
Denton spied a group of figures near the head of the convoy, the heat waves making them appear distorted. There was a radioman Denton made out easily enough-the bulky field radio on the man’s back gave him away, as did the wobbly metal antenna that bobbed over his shoulder. The only other man Denton could identify had to be General Sherman-the older man held the radio’s handset to his ear and had his other hand on his hip. Even from a distance the photographer could tell that Sherman was frustrated.
“Looks like the party’s up ahead,” Denton said to Brewster.
“Let’s crash it,” replied the private, making Denton flinch. The mention of crashing so soon after the overzealous private’s driving wasn’t reassuring.
The pair shuffled through the sand towards the lead truck in the convoy. Other soldiers had already gathered around, waiting to hear the update on the situation. The convoy had been traveling for almost two hours-slow going on the dirt and sand roads of the Sinai desert. Most of them were glad for the chance to stretch their legs.
As they approached the head of the convoy, Denton could make out General Sherman’s words.
“Suez, Suez, this is Echo Lead. Do you read, over? Respond on any channel. Suez, Suez, this is Echo Lead…”
Denton had seen enough military campaigns in his years as a photojournalist to know that losing contact with an advance base was never a good thing. He wondered what had happened in Suez. Thoughts began to race through his mind, most of them unpleasant. Maybe the carriers broke through. Maybe there had been an ordnance malfunction. Or maybe the radio operator just wasn’t paying attention.
Brewster took a knee near the edge of the group, motioning for Denton to join him. The photographer declined, instead popping the lens cap off his Nikon camera and lining up shots while he could.
General Sherman gave up on trying to reach Suez and dropped the handset into the radioman’s pack. He sighed heavily and turned to the officer next to him. Denton glanced at the uniform, saw it read ‘U.S. Navy,’ and surmised this was Commander Barker. He tried to get in closer to hear what they were discussing, but Sherman and Barker had lowered their voices. The murmured conversations of the gathered soldiers weren’t helping
Denton decided he was staying out of it. He said nothing, and instead picked up the tape deck from the floor of the cab, inspecting it for damage.
“Sorry, sir,” Brewster said, dropping the funny-guy act. “I let myself get distracted. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s more like it. Now dismount and get up-front. We’re having trouble raising Suez,” Colonel Dewen said, scowling at Brewster before moving on down the line to the next truck in the convoy.
“Come on, bud, step lively or face the wrath of Dewen,” Brewster said, slapping a hand against Denton’s shoulder.
Brewster landed deftly in the soft sand outside, slinging his M-16A2 over his shoulder with practiced ease. Denton slid out the opposite side of the cab with a little less luck, catching a camera strap on the door and cursing as he struggled to untangle it. He met up with Brewster in front of the vehicle.
“What’s this all about?” Denton asked, wiping sweat and dust from his forehead. The convoy had ground to a halt all along its mighty length and soldiers were climbing out of vehicles in confusion.
“Don’t know,” Brewster said. “Hey! Darin! What’s the Sitrep?”
“The Sitrep is this sand blows camel balls, and your mother’s blowin’ em, too, Brewster, you honkey bastard!” came the shouted reply from a few trucks over.
“That means he doesn’t know,” Brewster translated.
Denton spied a group of figures near the head of the convoy, the heat waves making them appear distorted. There was a radioman Denton made out easily enough-the bulky field radio on the man’s back gave him away, as did the wobbly metal antenna that bobbed over his shoulder. The only other man Denton could identify had to be General Sherman-the older man held the radio’s handset to his ear and had his other hand on his hip. Even from a distance the photographer could tell that Sherman was frustrated.
“Looks like the party’s up ahead,” Denton said to Brewster.
“Let’s crash it,” replied the private, making Denton flinch. The mention of crashing so soon after the overzealous private’s driving wasn’t reassuring.
The pair shuffled through the sand towards the lead truck in the convoy. Other soldiers had already gathered around, waiting to hear the update on the situation. The convoy had been traveling for almost two hours-slow going on the dirt and sand roads of the Sinai desert. Most of them were glad for the chance to stretch their legs.
As they approached the head of the convoy, Denton could make out General Sherman’s words.
“Suez, Suez, this is Echo Lead. Do you read, over? Respond on any channel. Suez, Suez, this is Echo Lead…”
Denton had seen enough military campaigns in his years as a photojournalist to know that losing contact with an advance base was never a good thing. He wondered what had happened in Suez. Thoughts began to race through his mind, most of them unpleasant. Maybe the carriers broke through. Maybe there had been an ordnance malfunction. Or maybe the radio operator just wasn’t paying attention.
Brewster took a knee near the edge of the group, motioning for Denton to join him. The photographer declined, instead popping the lens cap off his Nikon camera and lining up shots while he could.
General Sherman gave up on trying to reach Suez and dropped the handset into the radioman’s pack. He sighed heavily and turned to the officer next to him. Denton glanced at the uniform, saw it read ‘U.S. Navy,’ and surmised this was Commander Barker. He tried to get in closer to hear what they were discussing, but Sherman and Barker had lowered their voices. The murmured conversations of the gathered soldiers weren’t helping
Similar Books
