“Put my cabin as far away from Coop as possible,” Jersey said, grinning. “The sound of retching keeps me awake at night.”
“Since you have no male friends, it’s a sure thing nothing else will keep you awake,” Coop shot back.
Hammer stood up, a sheet of paper in his hand. “Here are the cabin assignments.” He handed the paper to Jersey. “And, Jersey, you got your wish. Your cabin is on the opposite end of the corridor from Coop’s.”
Jersey glanced at the paper and noticed Hammer had put her in the room next to him. She looked at him, but his face was straight, with no hint of any ulterior motive in the assignments. She wondered again if she was going to have trouble with him coming on to her . . . not that it would be all that hard to take, she thought, noticing again his heavily muscled body and handsome face. In fact, it might not be bad at all.
Coop was miserable. In fact, if he’d had his side arm with him as he hung his head over the rail and vomited repeatedly into the choppy waves of the Atlantic, he would most assuredly have used it to end his misery.
To make matters worse, the rest of the team seemed to have no problem whatsoever with the roughness of the seas. Jersey would stand behind him and offer helpful suggestions, such as why not eat some greasy bacon and eggs so the fish would have something substantial to eat rather than the pure bile he was pouring on them with some regularity.
Other suggestions, such as watching the shoreline, barely visible on the horizon, or fixing his gaze on clouds overhead, seemed to do nothing but make his misery worse.
Finally, just before lunch, Matt Stryker approached the gray-faced Coop, still on his knees at the rail.
“Come on, Coop. You’ve got to put something in your stomach or you’re going to be too weak for the mission.”
Coop glanced back over his shoulder. “Are you kidding? It wouldn’t stay there for more than a minute.”
Stryker squatted down next to him. “Listen, I’ve got some suppositories in my duffel bag that will help. Phenergan will take most of the vomiting away, though you’ll probably still be nauseated.”
“Suppositories?” Coop asked weakly.
“Yeah. You couldn’t keep a pill down, so it’s either suppositories or a shot.”
Coop, who hated needles almost as bad as traveling by sea, shook his head. “I’ll take the suppository.”
Stryker put his hand under Coop’s arm and helped him to his feet As they walked toward Stryker’s cabin, Jersey began to walk alongside them.
“Tell you what, Coop,” she said, smiling broadly. “Since you were so nice to me when we were marooned in the jungle last year, I’ll be glad to insert the suppository for you.”
He cut his eyes to her, sweat beading his forehead. “No thanks, Jerse,” he mumbled.
“Really, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” she said sweetly.
He managed to give her one of his trademark smirks. “You just want to get my pants down, hussy,” he said, “so you can have your wanton way with me.”
Jersey gave a mock shudder. “I think I’ll pass, Coop. Puke on my face has never been much of a turn-on for me in the way of foreplay.”
“Foreplay?” he rejoined. “What’s that?”
“Oh, I forgot for a minute, you’re a man. Naturally, you don’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman.”
Coop jerked his head toward Hammer, who was watching them from a distance. “Why don’t you head on back to Hammer, Jerse? From the looks of things, he’s got some ideas along that line for you.”
Jersey raised her eyebrows. “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Coop?”
He hung his head and dry-heaved a time or two. “No, dear, it’s nausea at the thought of you with your clothes off trying to tell someone how to make love in your own bossy way.”
“Well!” Jersey said, irritated by Stryker’s smile at Coop’s statement. “As if you’d know anything about how I make love.”
“The thought never crossed my mind, Jerse. I’m more into women a bit more . . . feminine,” Coop flung back at her as he and Stryker entered Stryker’s cabin and shut the door behind them.
Jersey whirled on her heels and stalked back out onto the deck, muttering, “Feminine, huh? I’ll show him feminine.”
She walked over to stand at the rail next to Hammer, who was looking out over the sea, watching dolphins as they raced through the bow wave of the freighter.
He glanced at her, then said, “Something I’d like to know.”
“Yeah?” she replied without looking at him.
“Is there . . . anything between you and Cooper?”
Now she did look at him, a slight smile on the corner of her lips. “Not now, not ever,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering if I’d be wasting my time if I gave it a shot.”
She looked back out over the sea, excited by the closeness of the man. “You’ll never know unless you try, Hammer.”
Anna and Harley were sitting in the wardroom of the freighter, drinking coffee. The mug looked like a demitasse cup in Harley’s huge hands.
“Is it true you’re descended from the Karankawa Indians?” Anna asked.
Harley nodded. “Yeah, indirectly. They interbred with some prisoners they took from a tribe of Mexican Indians who were descended from the Vikings, which explains the red hair and blue eyes.”
“Is it true the Karankawa were cannibals?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Like the Aztecs, they would occasionally eat the heart or brain of an enemy they respected, in order to capture their cunning or bravery, but it was more of a ritual thing, like Catholics eating the crackers and drinking the wine which symbolize the body and blood of Christ.”
She smiled at him. “So, you’ve never . . .”
He laughed. “No. I’ve never been that hungry . . . at least not yet.”
They were interrupted by the rest of the crew filing in for lunch.
Anna saw Coop walking slowly into the room, his face still gray and his eyes sunken and hollow-looking.
“Coop,” she called, patting the seat beside her. “Come sit over here.”
He sat down as she reached over and poured him a cup of coffee. “You up for this?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. The medicine Stryker gave me seems to be working, at least for now.”
“Once you get something in your stomach, the sickness will pass,” Harley advised, a sympathetic look on his face.
“I hope so,” Coop said. “I feel like such a damn fool.”
“Hey, man,” Harley said, “seasickness is nothing to be ashamed of. I heard back during the Second World War one of the admirals of the fleet suffered from it, and it didn’t keep him from kicking Jap ass.”
“Really?” Coop said, his expression brightening a little.
“Sure enough,” Harley replied. “Matter of fact, my first few weeks in jump training I was sick as a dog from air sickness, so I know what you’re going through.”
“How’d you get over it?” Coop asked.
Harley shrugged. “With time, you just get used to it, I guess. Maybe being shot at while you’re flying takes your mind off your stomach.”
Coop grinned. “If that’s true, you have my permission to unload a few rounds in my direction next time you see me at the rail.”
FIVE
Bruno Bottger sat behind his desk, drinking his German wine, as Sergei Bergman and Herman Bundt gave their report on the New World Order mercenaries’ readiness for battle.
Bergman, who had been with Bottger since the African campaign and was in charge of the mercs’ training facility, took a deep drink of his scotch whiskey, then dipped the end of his cigar in it before taking a puff. As he let smoke trail from his nostrils, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Bruno,” he said in answer to Bottger’s question about the mercs. “We’ve had plenty of men answer your ads in Soldier of Fortune magazine, but only about half of them are really battle-experienced. The rest are wannabes who are dirt
poor and looking for an easy way to make some money.”
Sergeant Herman Bundt, Bergman’s second in command, sneered over his bottle of beer. “Those can be useful too, Sergei,” he said. “We can always use them for cannon fodder if the need arises.”
“That’s true, Herman,” Bergman agreed, “but at some point, we’re going to need men who can give as well as follow orders. My experienced line officers are too few to be everywhere at once, and it doesn’t do any good to have good weapons and matériel if the men don’t know how or when to use them.”
“I thought we were on schedule with our training,” Bruno said, a scowl on his face.
“We were, Bruno,” Bergman said, “but the schedule was advanced by over a year when President Osterman offered you the chance to attack the SUSA earlier than you’d planned.”
“Well, then we need to accelerate the training,” Bruno said, as if his ordering it would make it possible. “This chance is too good to pass up. That crazy bitch Osterman has practically given us the keys to her country as well as the means to defeat that bastard Raines and his mongrel country. Whatever it takes to get more men who are acceptable must be done. Increase the ads if you need to or offer more money, but get me some troops that are worthy of the New World Order.”
Bergman finished off his scotch and stuck his cigar in the corner of him mouth as he got up from his chair. “I’ll do what I can, Bruno, but don’t expect miracles.”
“That is exactly what I do expect, Sergei,” Bruno said, his expression dangerous, “and you know the price of failure.”
Bergman glanced at Rudolf Hessner standing off to the side, wishing their leader’s second in command would try to talk some sense into him. “Yes, sir,” he said, snapping off a quick salute and leaving the room, Bundt right behind him.
“Do you think Bergman is up to the task?” Bruno asked Hessner.
Rudolf nodded. “Do not let Sergei’s trying to warn you of the facts mislead you into thinking he is not fully committed to our war, Bruno,” he said. “Sergei is one of the best men I’ve ever seen at motivating and training mercenaries. He will get the job done if it is at all possible to do it.”
“He’d better,” Bruno growled. He rubbed the scar tissue on his face with his fingertips. “I’ve waited a long time to pay Ben Raines back for what he did to us in Africa, and I don’t intend to let him off the hook now.”
Sergei Bergman walked out of the villa and got into his personal HumVee, waiting only a moment as Herman Bundt followed. He started the engine and squealed the tires as he raced out of the driveway toward the mercenaries’ training facility on the other end of the island. “Goddamn generals, they’re all the same,” he muttered to himself. “They think if they order it, it will magically happen, like I’m supposed to make good soldiers out of riffraff overnight.”
He drove over winding roads through heavily jungled terrain until he arrived at the camp. He pulled to a stop and sat in his vehicle for a moment watching his officers put the mercs through their training exercises.
Shaking his head at the inexperience some of the men showed, he climbed down and walked to the officers’ billet to check and see if any worthwhile candidates had come in recently.
Sergeant Herman Bundt walked around to sit behind his desk. He pushed a button on the intercom and said, “Send in the new arrivals.”
A moment later, a group of men and women stood at attention before him.
Bundt glanced up and smiled at Bergman. “These are the latest arrivals, Sergei,” he said. “From their records, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.
“I hope they’re better than the last bunch,” Bergman replied, looking over the new recruits. There were a couple that looked interesting. Two men who were well over six feet tall and had the look of battle-hardened veterans about them, along with another man who was leaner and less muscled, but whose eyes were hard as flint.
“What have we got here?” Bergman asked, shifting his gaze from the men to two women who were standing with them. “Are these women applying for jobs as cooks, or hostesses?”
The taller of the two women, a pretty, dark-haired female who looked as if she had some indio blood in her veins, turned her eyes to him. Her look made the hair on the back of his neck stir, and he thought maybe he’d misjudged this one. She certainly looked dangerous enough. He glanced at her companion, a fresh-faced younger woman with close-cropped blond hair and a trim build This one looks much too soft to be a mercenary, he thought. She looks more suited to sharing a man’s bed than a foxhole.
“These applicants all have battle experience, Sergei,” Bundt commented, looking down at the papers the recruits had filled out. “First with Claire Osterman’s Army in the U.S., then with Raines’s forces in the SUSA.”
“You’ve all fought together before?” Bergman asked, waiting to see who answered as the leader of the small group.
The tall redheaded man turned to speak. “Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Why did you switch alliance from the U.S. to the SUSA?” Bergman asked, stepping in front of the desk and sitting his hips on the desktop.
The red-haired giant shrugged. “More money, less hassle with poor officers who were trying to get us killed.”
“So, money, not ideology, is what is important to you, huh?” Bergman asked.
“Staying alive to spend the money is the most important thing, sir. From what we’ve seen, Raines’s forces don’t have the will to win this war, or they’d have finished Perro Loco off in Mexico when they had the chance. We prefer to be on the winning side, for all kinds of reasons.”
Bergman nodded. He could understand that, all right. It was the main reason he’d decided to fight with Bruno Bottger himself.
“I don’t have any quarrel with that,” Bergman said, “if you can earn your keep. Just how good are you?”
The big man’s lips curled in a half smile. “Good enough to take anyone you’ve got with you now.”
Bergman pursed his lips as he thought. He liked this man’s confidence. In fact, it reminded him of himself when he was younger and full of piss and vinegar.
“Herman,” Bergman said, “bring me those laser flak jackets. We’re gonna have a little war game action today.”
* * *
Bergman handed out the jackets to Harley Reno and his team.
“What are these?” Coop asked as he examined the strange-looking garment.
“Specially constructed flak jackets with laser-receivers built in,” Bergman answered. “They’re used with these special laser rifles. If you’re hit with a beam, the jacket begins to beep and you’re classified as a kill.”
Harley slipped his jacket on and took a laser rifle from Bergman. “So, what’s the deal?”
Bergman thought for a moment. “I think I’ll send you and your team out into the jungle. Give you about an hour head start, then send my best team of commandos after you. Whoever comes back with the most live men is the winner.”
“And if we lose?” Jersey asked.
“Then obviously, we won’t be needing your services,” Bergman answered with a grim smile.
Harley started to leave, then stopped and faced Bergman. “You want us to kill your team or bring them back alive as prisoners?”
Bergman laughed. “You’re awfully confident you won’t be the ones brought back.”
Harley shrugged. “Let’s just say we capture the entire force. What then?”
“I’ll make you my lead commando group and send the others back for more training,” Bergman said, his expression showing he doubted very much that would happen.
Once out of sight of the camp, Harley shifted into double time, practically jogging as he moved through dense jungle overgrowth as if it weren’t there. It was all the rest of the team could do to keep up with him as he moved silently and swiftly down narrow jungle trails.
After thirty minutes, he stopped when he found an area he liked. Squatting, he and Hammer stuck sticks in the soft earth just off
the trail and strung thin, almost invisible wire across the path. The wire they connected to slam-bangs, percussion grenades that exploded with a loud bang and a brilliant flash of light when triggered.
Harley then moved back down the trail the way they’d come, whispering directions to Coop and Jersey as he positioned them in undergrowth off the trail and handed them a handful of plastic tie-downs, such as cops use in place of handcuffs.
Taking Anna by the arm, he and Hammer ran on ahead, jumping over the wire as they passed it.
Fifteen minutes passed, and then a group of ten men appeared on the trail, passing between Jersey and Coop without seeing them. Evidently, Bergman hadn’t kept his word about giving them an hour’s head start, Coop thought as he ducked down behind his bush and waited for the scout group to pass.
The leader of the commandos, a tall black man with broad shoulders and old burn scars on his face, walked in a semi-crouch, sweeping his laser rifle back and forth as he moved silently up the trail.
The men behind him were good, for they kept their attention on what they were doing, with little chatter or unnecessary talk. They were strung out in single file, five yards between them, as they walked.
When the leader tripped the wire, causing the grenades to explode, all ten men hit the dirt facedown, yelling and groaning from the pain in their ears.
Coop and Jersey jumped from their cover, reversed their K-Bar assault knives, and coldcocked the last two men in the line in the back of their heads, knocking them unconscious. Then Coop and Jersey slipped back under cover.
Up ahead, just before a bend in the trail, Anna stepped into view and fired off several rounds with her M-16 laser rifle, making sure not to hit anyone.
The laser rifles were fitted with blank cartridges so they would sound like real combat weapons.
The black leader managed to get off two rounds, which missed, before Anna disappeared around the bend and out of sight.
“Come on, men, they’re up ahead!” he yelled, jumping to his feet and taking off in pursuit. His men scrambled to their feet and followed him, none noticing that the last two men in the group remained facedown on the jungle ground.
Warriors from the Ashes Page 4
