Read Online Tiger the Lurp Dog: A Novel by Kenn Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenn Miller
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going willingly into what could be the valley of the shadow of death with only the spottiest commo. Mopar always claimed he liked being entirely on his own, out of reach of the relay team and the rear, cut off from the rest of the world, but Marvel didn’t believe him. Nobody liked being without commo. And anyway, reporting back to the rear was the most important part of a Lurp’s job, even if it did seem silly to run out a wire and risk giving the team’s position away just to send in a negative situation report.
There was a stream in the draw. It was only a little pisstrickle that fed into the larger stream where Mopar had wanted to insert, but the vegetation around it was close and heavy and wet, and there were leeches everywhere. The leeches inched along the leaves and rose up like charmed cobras on the jungle floor as they zeroed in on the Lurps’ body heat and the smell of their sweat and blood. The leeches were hungry, and Marvel took that as another sign that there was no enemy presence in the area. He ran out the wire and got a commo check with the relay team, then doused his collar and boots with bug juice while Wolverine pointed east and motioned for Mopar to move toward the larger stream.
It was impossible for the men to sit down in their security wheel here in the thick and tangled jungle. Every time they paused to listen for movement they stayed on their feet in order of march, sweating and silently cursing the leeches, until Wolverine signaled for them to move out again. As they moved closer and closer to the main stream, the vegetation grew thicker and thicker. It was impossible to move silently now. The trees were much lower than they were on the ridge, and they were much closer together. Between the trees were tangles of hanging vines and curtains of wet leaves. Every few steps Mopar was forced to stop and allow Marvel to come up behind and free him from the vines and branches that snagged his rucksack. Gonzales, on rear security, simply gave up and stopped trying to straighten bent branches and replace the leaves the other men had knocked aside in their passing. The growth was just too thick, and there was no way to avoid leaving a trail.
If there was no way for Gonzales to sanitize their trail, there was even less way for Mopar to avoid the leeches that crawled up his boots and attached to his face and neck and hands as he brushed the leaves on which they waited in ambush. He felt one leech inching along the back of his ear, moving toward the warmth and rhythm of the pulse of his neck, and for just a fleeting instant he had to fight down a surge of sympathy for the poor bastards on the other side who had to live in these jungles without benefit of American insect repellent. It wasn’t the first time he found himself putting himself in the other guy’s place, but he repressed his feelings more quickly than usual and went on with his job. A man had to stay on guard against getting soft.
Mopar found a trail parallel to the main stream. It was overgrown and snarled with thin, raspy vines and obviously hadn’t seen any heavy traffic for at least a month. But it had to be reported all the same. Marvel Kim ran out his wire and called the trail in himself. Wolverine glanced impatiently at him and held a cautionary finger to his lip, when Marvel whispered too loudly into the headset, but he didn’t interfere or have anything to add to Marvel’s transmission.
Mopar wanted to get back to high ground. He talked a lot of brave bullshit about operating without commo, and a little bit of it was true. He knew the other guys—the gooks—didn’t always have radios, and if they could get by without commo, then so could American Lurps. The leeches bothered him more than the lack of commo. He was sick of the leeches, sick of the stench of the stagnant pools and rotting vegetation along the stream, and sick of wasting time moving slow when there wasn’t a gook in the whole damn Recon Zone.
But that lifer,
There was a stream in the draw. It was only a little pisstrickle that fed into the larger stream where Mopar had wanted to insert, but the vegetation around it was close and heavy and wet, and there were leeches everywhere. The leeches inched along the leaves and rose up like charmed cobras on the jungle floor as they zeroed in on the Lurps’ body heat and the smell of their sweat and blood. The leeches were hungry, and Marvel took that as another sign that there was no enemy presence in the area. He ran out the wire and got a commo check with the relay team, then doused his collar and boots with bug juice while Wolverine pointed east and motioned for Mopar to move toward the larger stream.
It was impossible for the men to sit down in their security wheel here in the thick and tangled jungle. Every time they paused to listen for movement they stayed on their feet in order of march, sweating and silently cursing the leeches, until Wolverine signaled for them to move out again. As they moved closer and closer to the main stream, the vegetation grew thicker and thicker. It was impossible to move silently now. The trees were much lower than they were on the ridge, and they were much closer together. Between the trees were tangles of hanging vines and curtains of wet leaves. Every few steps Mopar was forced to stop and allow Marvel to come up behind and free him from the vines and branches that snagged his rucksack. Gonzales, on rear security, simply gave up and stopped trying to straighten bent branches and replace the leaves the other men had knocked aside in their passing. The growth was just too thick, and there was no way to avoid leaving a trail.
If there was no way for Gonzales to sanitize their trail, there was even less way for Mopar to avoid the leeches that crawled up his boots and attached to his face and neck and hands as he brushed the leaves on which they waited in ambush. He felt one leech inching along the back of his ear, moving toward the warmth and rhythm of the pulse of his neck, and for just a fleeting instant he had to fight down a surge of sympathy for the poor bastards on the other side who had to live in these jungles without benefit of American insect repellent. It wasn’t the first time he found himself putting himself in the other guy’s place, but he repressed his feelings more quickly than usual and went on with his job. A man had to stay on guard against getting soft.
Mopar found a trail parallel to the main stream. It was overgrown and snarled with thin, raspy vines and obviously hadn’t seen any heavy traffic for at least a month. But it had to be reported all the same. Marvel Kim ran out his wire and called the trail in himself. Wolverine glanced impatiently at him and held a cautionary finger to his lip, when Marvel whispered too loudly into the headset, but he didn’t interfere or have anything to add to Marvel’s transmission.
Mopar wanted to get back to high ground. He talked a lot of brave bullshit about operating without commo, and a little bit of it was true. He knew the other guys—the gooks—didn’t always have radios, and if they could get by without commo, then so could American Lurps. The leeches bothered him more than the lack of commo. He was sick of the leeches, sick of the stench of the stagnant pools and rotting vegetation along the stream, and sick of wasting time moving slow when there wasn’t a gook in the whole damn Recon Zone.
But that lifer,
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