Gallen noticed that Chase shook the offered hand but kept his eyes on the people unknown to him.
‘These the boys?’ Chase asked, walking around Aaron.
Gallen stepped forward, offered his hand. ‘Gerry Gallen.’
‘Chase Lang,’ said the big man. ‘Corps, right?’
‘Ex.’ Gallen noticed a SEALs ring on Lang’s heavy right hand, and recognised the name. Chase Lang was a military services provider, what in the old days was known as a middleman for mercenaries.
‘The man say you got a budget of twenty-five grand,’ said Lang. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
The golf cart hissed around the aisles, Chase Lang giving a running commentary as they passed the bins of everything a small army would need for life in the field. Starting with the fatigues, Gallen read from his piece of paper the dimensions and boot size of a crew that were accustomed to ordering precisely the fit they wanted. He ordered sets of blacks, jungle camos and arctic camos, and then sifted through the racks of civvie fatigues, military gear designed for use by special forces and intel teams when they wanted to pass for mining assayers or geology analysts.
The security guy beside Lang input the orders into a handheld device and Gallen noticed that a John Deere Gator was following them, the items being dumped in the tray on the back.
They threw in socks, underwear, undershirts, thermals and field toilet bags with the good razors that lasted for at least twenty shaves. He ordered caps, hats, gloves, travel pouches that were really handgun holsters and sunglasses that held boom mics and earpieces. Winter pointed out a selection of tiny cameras that transmitted wirelessly to a screen. The whole set-up seemed to run on lithium batteries and Gallen ordered one screen and four cameras.
There was a bin of boots on sale — JB Goodhues, known to soldiers as Canadian fire-fighter boots. They were ten-hole lace-ups with steel shanks and a sole rated for walking across burning coals without melting. They were lined with fire-retarding insulation and because they usually cost two hundred and fifty per pair, the military didn’t stock them in the PX and didn’t have them on general issue. Winter seized on them when he realised what they were and Gallen ordered two pairs each at the sale price of forty dollars a throw.
‘Make a man happy with good leather, boss,’ said Winter, lighting a smoke and pleased with the boots.
Gallen smiled; at officer training there had been an old-school instructor who used to tell the young candidates that if you looked after a soldier’s feet and stomach — and gave him fair warning of what was expected each day — then you were basically a good officer.
They took six Kevlar vests — all in taupe — before driving through the internal security fence at the rear of the complex, Chase Lang holding forth on why his teenage kids sat twenty yards from one another and communicated via text messages.
‘I think this generation are the smartest young people ever,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘So what are they so afraid of?’
The golf cart stopped in front of a weapons cache as large as any Gallen had seen outside of Camp Pendleton, the home of the US Marines 1st Recon Battalion. Following Lang along the display racks, Gallen and Winter noted the handguns, the assault rifles, the grenades and marksman rifles. There was a special section for the assault rifles with grenade launchers under the barrel and night sights on the top.
They’d agreed on 9mm handguns and 7.62mm assault rifles, so Gallen ordered five SIG Sauer handguns in matt black, ten spare mags and two large boxes of Winchester loads, each containing thirty-two smaller boxes. Gallen was about to get a set of Colt M4 assault rifles loaded in the Gator when Winter cleared his throat.
‘Problem?’ said Gallen, playing with the breech and cocking the action of a weapon he’d come to know very well during his time in Mindanao and Afghanistan.
‘You ever seen the NATO-issue?’ Winter pointed down the display racks to the Heckler & Koch section.
Following Winter to the German weapons, Gallen was out of his comfort zone. US-made firearms may not have been the most advanced, but they worked in all environments and all weather. He watched as the Canadian picked up a futuristic assault rifle labelled ‘G36’.
‘Looks fancy,’ said Gallen, as Lang joined them. ‘But I don’t bet my crew’s life on fancy.’
Lang and Winter chuckled at each other and Gallen felt the flush of anger in his face. ‘Something funny?’
‘Boss,’ said Winter, handing the G36 to Gallen, who immediately felt its lightness and balance, ‘when I first joined ISAF and realised I’d be using the Heckler, I didn’t like the idea. Next morning, my captain tells me to go into the galley, get the rifle from the deep freeze and go shoot some targets.’
‘What happened?’ said Gallen, reaching for his smokes.
‘Took this G36 out of the deep freeze — one just like that — walked out to the range and put a whole magazine into the big spot from eighty yards.’
Looking down at the rifle, with its weird handle over the top of the breech, Gallen didn’t know how to respond. ‘How long had it been in the deep freeze?’
‘Overnight, boss,’ said Winter. ‘Mag too. It was so cold my hands stuck to it, and there I am putting eyes and smile in a black circle from eighty yards.’
‘On auto?’ said Gallen, getting annoyed.
‘Sure — singles, full auto. Learned to love that rifle.’
‘Well.’ Gallen rotated the weapon in his hands. ‘Looks like a prop from Star Wars.’
‘It’s the latest and the best — Heckler & Koch,’ said Lang, like a philosopher.
‘I got one answer to the latest and the best,’ Gallen handed the Heckler back to Winter.
‘What’s that?’ said Lang, as Gallen turned to go.
‘Winchester .30–30,’ said Gallen as he walked back to the Colts, laughter banging around the warehouse.
CHAPTER 9
Winter did the driving, north from Natrona County airport on 1-25, the northbound interstate into Montana. Sitting in the passenger seat Gallen scrolled through his cell phone, picking up texts and voicemail. He’d said yes to the Heckler & Koch rifles; the quip about the .30–30 had been a joke at his own expense. Most North American farmers kept a Winchester .30–30—the ‘lever-action’ rifles from western movies — even though the weapon was invented more than a century ago. The .30–30 was easy to use, didn’t fail and any gunsmith could work on one. What he really wanted was more control over the kit he’d bought. He’d have preferred to dump it in a lock-up until it was needed but Aaron had it bundled into a bunch of black holdall bags and said he’d store it, like it was his property. Gallen’s time in the field had taught him valuable lessons about the crew’s kit and who gets to touch it. Too many hands on the bags was a doomed recipe. Only one approach got personal gear where it had to go, and that was signing it over to each man and making him responsible.
‘So Donny said yes?’ said Winter as he got Roy’s truck settled at sixty-five mph and found a country music station based in Casper.
‘Said yes on the phone. Last night was just catching up.’ Gallen grimaced at a series of voicemail alerts from his father. ‘About to take a job on the armoured cars, so this gig’s what he’s looking for.’
‘He’s not married is my guess.’
‘Hah!’ Gallen smiled at the idea. ‘Donny McCann likes being single. Can’t imagine him taking crap from a wife.’
‘Roy said you was married.’
‘Divorced. Two years ago. Two and a half.’
‘While you’re in that shit?’ said Winter, cracking the window and flicking his ash at the gap.
‘Technically,’ said Gallen. ‘But it was failing before then.’