“You don’t think it’s the Gators?”
Ed shook his head at Bobby. “No, we’d have heard something. I don’t know what it is. But I have a hunch it’s going to be important. And I’d rather be two days early for the party than two minutes late. And taking a roundabout way through the city is a good way to get a feel for the area, see if the Army’s up to anything, whatever. Either way, I want to be on site a full twenty-four hours early so we can get eyes on that location, know what we’re walking into.”
“We’re in sorry shape for any kind of action,” George reminded him.
“I know, I know.”
They’d done an equipment check right before the briefing and it was as bad as it had ever been. George had the most ammunition of any of them, sixty rounds. Ed only had forty-two for his rifle – the pouches all across his chest were filled with magazines, but only one of them was loaded, and that only partially. Everyone in the squad carried at least one pistol and had spare ammo for it, but pistols were last ditch defensive weapons. There was only one round left for Ed’s grenade launcher, and the entire squad had but one hand grenade. George took that; he had the best aim and they’d yet to see him get rattled under fire. Even with the grenades, if they ran into anything larger than a squad of dismounted infantry they’d be down to knives and harsh language in no time.
They had three rechargeable batteries they rotated in the drone jammer, which used to last a whole day; now they barely went eight hours. They hadn’t had a working drone in over a year. The squad had only one working set of night vision goggles and the batteries on those were twitchy. The NV scope on Ed’s carbine had plenty of juice but two working NV units for an eight-man squad heading into enemy territory was far less than a good situation. The filter elements of their water purifiers were long past needing replacement, but of course they had no spares. For the moment, almost all of their canteens were full, but in the city water could be an elusive creature. Food was another matter altogether—they had a day’s rations apiece, no more. But it was a rare day they weren’t hungry; hunger was just another enemy they had to deal with.
Their first aid supplies were nearly exhausted, not that they’d ever really had that much. They had bandages and compresses by the dozen, a few tourniquets, but the painkillers were gone, and there were only a handful of antibiotics left.
Ed sighed. They’d been in worse shape, a lot worse—nobody was dead or bleeding—but this time they didn’t have the luxury of pulling back to wait for a trickling resupply through the Underground Railroad, as they liked to call it. That Byzantine web of doctors, safehouses, of locally grown food, smuggled guns, ammo, and other supplies clandestinely fed to guerilla squads like theirs had kept them in the fight during the worst of times, but to tap into it they’d need to go north, south, or west of the city, and there was no time. They’d just have to make do with what they had, somehow. They always did.
“We’ll head for the general store as soon as we get south of the border,” Ed said gamely, staring at the map. “Then sweep up back northeast to the RP.” He shut off the penlight finally and darkness descended.
“Assuming the cranky bastard’s still alive and in business, and actually has something useful on hand,” Weasel’s voice floated out of the gloom.
“I guess we’ll find out. He’s always got news, if nothing else.” Ed looked to George. “You have anything to add?”
“I want everyone to keep their eyes open and their brain in gear when we get moving.” His gravelly voice was barely more than a murmur. “We don’t know what’s up but that doesn’t mean our friends on the other side don’t. We have to assume they’re on alert, looking for us coming south, just waiting to call in the fast movers and barbeque our asses. Get your shit in order, and your head on straight, or it’s going to be a short trip.”
After a few seconds of silence, Mark’s voice echoed from over by the windows. “Another cheery pep talk from Dale Carnegie. Good thing it’s dark, I’m all weepy now.”
Everybody had to strangle their laughter so as not to violate noise discipline, but Jason heard snorting on both sides of him. The meeting, which had been much more informal than what he’d been expecting—no saluting, or Yes Sirs!—broke up. The squad members climbed to their feet and drifted apart, finding their own space. Jason stood up as well and made his way over to the squad’s leader, who was conferring quietly with George. Behind them stood a decaying office partition that looked like someone had once unsuccessfully tried to light it on fire. He had to clear his throat to be noticed.
“Yes?”
“Yeah, um, well, a couple things,” Jason said. “What do I call you—lieutenant, sergeant? What’s your rank? Should I say Sir? I’ve never been in the army.”
Ed tried hard to suppress a smile, glanced at George. “Well, you’re not in it now, either. The Army’s the people we’re trying to kill. And who are trying to kill us.”
“Plus the Air Force,” George added helpfully.
Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, them too.” He sighed and told Jason, “You’re in the ARF Irregulars, kid, and hell, we can’t even agree on what ARF originally stood for. Armed Resistance Fighters, American Reacquisition Forces, whatever, but if you’re a dogsoldier you’ve decided to take a stand and fight for freedom against those of our fellow citizens who have lost their way and those pure bastards who know what they’re doing and are just plain evil. Not that you necessarily need to join up to join in, plenty of killing in this war has been done by people just too fed up to take it any longer, shooting out the front door of their house with their deer rifle or shotgun at soldiers, and before that at cops tasked with enforcing all the new illegal laws. That’s pretty much how the war started, and it’s still happening to this day. Those souls are the true Irregulars, we’re just… semi-regular.” He smiled at his own joke. “As for rank, I’ve got a rank, it’s written down somewhere, but I don’t think it’s really that important right now. Besides, George here has more experience than me and I don’t even think he has a rank. Everybody here’s a volunteer. They can get up and walk out that door right now if they want to. You too. They’re here because they believe in what they’re doing. Fighting the good fight. They put me in charge because I make the right decisions more often than not. That stops, they’ll start listening to someone else.”
The truth was the Irregulars were a lot more organized and regimented than it appeared from the outside, and he did have a rank, just like the squad had a codename, Theodore, but just because they’d found no evidence that the kid was a plant didn’t mean they trusted him. Not completely, not yet.
“You’re in charge because you’re lucky,” Weasel called out quietly.
“Yeah? How is that rib?” Quentin asked the hawk-faced man.
“Coulda been my head,” Weasel shot back. “And we didn’t lose anybody during that thing, not us or the other squad. And we chewed them up bad. Twelve KIA.”
“Only if you’re counting some of them two or three times.”
“The confirmed kill numbers they claim to the media, I think the Army counts actual dogs they shoot as dogsoldiers,” Weasel said.
“That sounds about right,” Mark said with a laugh.