Which it certainly has, for us, anyway.
Even without the lights of the town, they might have seen it, so far and so bright had the moon arisen.
"Hey, Eeyore," Morales asked, "do you remember that movie, The Princess Bride?" He was standing beside Antoniewicz, facing aft with his diving mask on his face and his monocular turned down.
"Sure," Antoniewicz answered.
"You remember that scene where Inigo Montoya asks, ‘Are you sure nobody's following us?'"
Antoniewicz thought for a moment, remembering back to childhood, before answering, "Yeah, I remember it."
"Good, 'cause I was just about to ask the same question."
Antoniewicz didn't have his mask handy. He glanced backwards even so to see if the pursuer could be seen in the moonlight.
"Shit," he said.
D-Day, five and a half miles north-northeast of Nugaal, Ophir
Terry Welch wasn't the subtle type. Thwuptupt. Two silenced, low velocity shots and the two guards at the gate to the palace grounds were thrown back to the low surrounding wall, bonelessly crumpling to the ground.
Grau and Semmerlin took up the rear as two files passed them, racing for the gate. One of the files, the one on the right, was smaller than the other, consisting of a two-man machine gun team, Graft gunning, one of the translators, Issaq Abay, carrying ammo plus an RPG, and Semmerlin. Issaq had said he could use an RPG and there was no reason to disbelieve him. At the gate, the machine gun team took up a firing position partially protected by the low wall and the mud brick pillar of the gate. Semmerlin cut right. Crouching low to take what cover the wall offered, he ran to the corner, then took up a position to cover any rear entrance to the barracks that might be there.
The rest, eight men with Welch in the lead-Little Joe Venegas having been left behind to guard the packs-charged forward. The rear two of those, Buttle and Grau, cut left to take up security at that corner of the palace. There was presumed to be a roving guard, somewhere on the grounds.
The brace of guards at the door proper to the building weren't as alert as they might have been. This cost them as Welch snapped his silenced submachine gun to his shoulder and fired two quick bursts that spun first one, and then the other, to the floor, spurting blood from violated bodies. As much blood as the men shed, Terry knew as he bounded over the corpses that it was nothing as compared to the damage done inside by the subsonic, but frangible, ammunition he'd used on them.
Terry wasn't subtle, but he wasn't precisely "Hulk smash" material either. He didn't throw his body against the large wooded double doors that fronted the palace. Instead, like a gentleman, he tried the knob. It was open.
He took in the first floor of the palace with a glance. Long wide corridor, rooms to either side, and a broad staircase that led upstairs.
He made a two-fingered gesture at Pigfucker and Mary-Sue. Here. Guard. Then he led the remaining three, including the last of the translators, up the flight of stairs to the second floor. Then he unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle of his submachine gun and pointed it at the ceiling.
"Standby to translate," he told the interpreter. "Prep stun grenades," he said to his two Americans.
Then Welch smiled and said, "Shock is good," just as he pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
But I've a rendezvous with death
At midnight in some flaming town
-Alan Seeger, "I have a Rendezvous with Death"
D Day, Beach Red, Ophir
Reilly was standing there, impatiently, when Fitz reported.
"The mechanic and the Ferret commander were pretty shaken up, boss," Fitz said. "I figured we ought to leave them behind. Top concurred."
The XO was standing in the surf next to the ramp, with waves washing around his ankles. Behind him a vehicle squealed over the wet steel and into the water. Spray from the armored car's wheels sprinkled his back.
"And we haven't a clue what caused the thing to catch fire," Fitz added. "And, since we dumped it over the side, we never will. Buuut . . . those things were pretty old. We've been lucky so far. They stood up through Brazil, after all."
"Mmmm . . . yeah," Reilly answered. Mourn later. "'Luck.' Nothing for it now. You made the right call. Mount up. Move out in five mikes."
***
They moved mostly in a column, with the three remaining Ferrets of the scout section forming a wedge at the point, three hundred meters ahead of the main column. Behind the Ferrets, out of range of any RPGs they might encounter, came the first section of Elands, then Reilly's command vehicle, then the second section, then Second Platoon, the antitank section, also in Ferrets, Third Platoon, the mortars, and lastly the ash and trash of headquarters.
In all, it made a column almost a kilometer long, raising clouds of dust as it roared out from the perimeter set up and held by the Marines
"Start pulling the boys into a tighter perimeter," Cazz told his first sergeant as the last of the armored cars rolled through.
"Roger, Skipper," Webster said, then turned off to oversee the consolidation.
"Good luck, Reilly, ya doggie Irish bastard, ya," Cazz said at the dust cloud behind the advancing armor.
And now I feel my age, Reilly thought, as his turretless Eland bounced over the rough ground, beating his kidneys like a good son of the Prophet would beat a sharp-tongued wife.
He stood in the space that would have held a turret, with Schiebel on the pintle-mounted machine gun ahead of him and James driving. James was a damned fine driver but, Jesus, this is rough ground and old technology.
Two vehicles ahead of him, the commander of a gunned, turreted Eland turned and flashed him a smile that would have been brilliant in the day. From the posture and shape he knew it was Lana Mendes. He'd have known anyway, since the order of march was by his command.
Almost, almost, he'd told Green to switch the order of march from First Section leading to Second Section. He hadn't because it would have been such obvious favoritism that he couldn't have stomached it. Nor, he suspected, could Lana have.
But I can hardly stomach that a girl I care for is preceding me into combat, either, even if only by fifty meters. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! The old rule is good: "Nobody else's wife, nobody's girlfriend, and none of the hired help." Fuck.
Lana was young and very healthy. The bouncing of the Eland caused her kidneys no serious discomfort. If it had, she might not have noticed anyway. The woman's heart sang at riding into battle on an iron steed, emulating the heroes of her childhood: Dayan, Sharon, and Israel Tal.
Turning her face back to the front, she placed her hands on either side of the vehicle commander's cupola. Night vision goggles on, she scanned to the front and to the left. Although it was premature, she ordered, "Viljoen, gun to ten o'clock."
"You see something, Lana?" the Boer asked, although his hand was already spinning the traversing wheel.
"No, just being careful. You should have done it without being told."
Viljoen bit back a snarly reply. Even so, he thought, No, you should have told me. A vehicle in order of march takes its cue from the one ahead of it, sweetie, or from SOP. Since we don't have an SOP, and the one ahead of us is aiming straight front, there was no cue. Ah, well. It's a little thing after all.