“Nighttime,” Jason said.
“You got it. Cold weather, too, that’s why we really scale it back during wintertime. You think the heat and humidity’s bad, operating in winter’s like Russian roulette. Add to that the fact that at the moment we’ve got about zero night-vision capability, daylight becomes the only time we’ve got anything close to a level playing field.”
Jason nodded. “Got it.” He frowned, wondering if he should ask any more questions. “Um, what were those sheets you guys had pinned up all over the walls and ceiling?” And most of the windows, he could have added. They’d been some sort of quilted fabric that resembled heavy duty burlap.
“Originally it was a space-age material used to wrap steam pipes,” Mark told him. They had looked like something from a spacecraft, Jason had to admit. The material was a butterscotch color with a basketweave pattern.
“I’ve heard there’s copper or even woven ceramic in there,” Ed told him. “Feels like some sort of thick polyester knit, but I’ve heard if you put a blowtorch on it… it does nothing. Barely even discolors it. Those sheets reflect heat. So anyone with a thermal scope or a FLIR unit, which sees body heat, doesn’t see the outline of a body. Blocks it entirely or spreads it out, not sure which, but it keeps us from being spotted through the walls. Or, at least it’s a lot tougher, especially on warm days like this.”
“Really?”
“You think we like the smell of moldy blankets?” Ed looked up at him. “We don’t want to die any more than you do, son.” Whenever possible they staged a cotton or wool blanket or two under slow drips in buildings they frequented to get them soaked with water, as spread wet blankets concealed heat signatures too, and they only had so many of the heat blankets. A soaked mattress was better yet. However, when it came to portability….
Jason’s face flushed. “No, I, uh…”
“You just remember to do what we tell you, when we tell you, when you’re out in the field.” Mark said. “You don’t understand something, you ask later.”
Mark was the only one of them wearing camouflage clothing, pants, but his trousers were cut off at the knee, revealing large, tanned calves above dusty boots. Above the butchered pants, underneath his plate carrier, he wore, of all things, a green and blue Hawaiian shirt. “Why aren’t you guys wearing camo?” Jason asked him. It unnerved him a bit to see a Hawaiian shirt on a man carrying a belt-fed machine gun. These days, possession of any firearm was a felony, even if it was just a single shot duck gun.
“City’s still full of people,” the big man told him. “So just wandering around down there won’t necessarily set off alarm bells. And sometimes we need to blend in. It’s easy to stash your rifle and plate carrier, just takes a couple of seconds. Takes a lot longer to change clothes, if you’ve even got a spare set.”
Jason frowned. “But camo helps you blend in.”
Quentin was nearby, listening, and he snorted. “To what? Rusty cars? Concrete? Half-burned houses? We ain’t trudging through the jungles of Vietnam where everything is green, we’re fighting in a city. Sure there’s a lot of green there, camo would be nice, but your eye spots movement a lot better than it does color. As long as you’re not wearing something that’s bright red or yellow or electric pimp-hand purple, if you’re hunkered down most people won’t see shit until you move.” He pointed at Mark. “Even with the blue that Hawaiian shirt’s great camo, from a distance the blue just looks like shadow. That’s why we’re the Irregulars, we don’t wear uniforms. Being able to blend in with other people helps keep you alive too.”
Jason nodded and hurried off, looking at the floor, feeling like a bit of an ass for asking so many questions. Ed and Mark exchanged a grin, then the commander checked his watch.
“Five minutes,” he softly called out. He caught Mark’s eye. “Go tell Weasel.”
Mark nodded. Weasel was up on the second floor, keeping watch out the front windows. Mark slapped the SAW back together with practiced speed, unfolding its integral bipod so it would stay upright. The SAW’s ammo belt was coiled in a soft-sided box that hung from the underside of the receiver. He laid the end of the belt into the open receiver, then closed the top and chambered the first round. He stood, then bent and picked up the weapon. Mark was a big man, six-foot four, with dirty blonde hair graying at the temples. His Vandyke beard had gone almost entirely grey and badly needed a trim. His arms below the sleeves of the Hawaiian shirt were covered with tattoos.
“This thing’s getting awfully light,” he told Ed. “A machine gun’s supposed to be for suppressive fire. I get any lighter on ammo all the Tabs are going to be doing is suppressing yawns.”
The squad leader looked up and nodded unhappily. No one quite knew where the nickname had come from, but the enemy soldiers, whether they were Army or Air Force, were often referred to as Tabs when no one felt like using any of the usual profane nicknames.
Ed put the purifier back together and stuffed it into his pack. He didn’t know if he’d made it better or worse, but he’d had to try. With a grunt he stood up, shouldered the pack, and grabbed the grenade launcher that had so perplexed Jason. Ed slung it behind his arm alongside his pack.
The small pack wasn’t nearly as heavy as it should have been. They needed to find more food and water, and soon. Conscious of the load on his back he bent down and picked up his carbine. The empty magazines in the front pockets of his vest poked him in the arms. That was another must-have item for the grocery list—ammo.
George cornered Jason on the ground floor. “You really walk down from Omer?” he asked the boy, squinting.
Jason swallowed. “Yes sir.”
“How long did that take you?”
“Eight, nine days to get to the suburbs, then another week before I found the lady who contacted you guys.”
“Hmm.” Well, at least he wasn’t a quitter. George’s feet ached at just the thought of that much walking… not that he wasn’t on his feet all the time anyway, or that they didn’t ache all the time. “You want to go by Jason?”
“Umm… what?”
“We’re fighting our own government, which considers us terrorists, and we’re behind enemy lines to boot. I don’t know about rank-and-file ARF, but Irregulars like to keep their anonymity, so if the government is in the mood for reprisals against family members, audits, property seizures and the like, they don’t know who to go after. Government has a price on all our heads, reward for ‘information leading to the death or capture of…’ Don’t tell me or anybody else here your last name, it’s not like you’re drawing a paycheck. And if you want to use a different name than Jason, that’s fine too. Early’s not Early, and you think Weasel’s his given name? I don’t think even his mother hates him that much.”
“Oh. Uh, Jason’s fine.”
George nodded. He looked at Jason, then around at the immediate vicinity.
“Where’s your rifle?”
Jason pointed. “It’s over there in the corner.”
“Are you carrying a pistol?”
Jason shook his head. George stepped close, and his voice dropped. “We’re in a combat zone. Any second we could take incoming, get surrounded, whatever. If you don’t have a single loaded gun on you, or within arm’s reach, you’re just a liability. Stay strapped or get clapped. You understand me, son?”
Jason nodded quickly. “Yes sir.”
George jerked his head. “Go get your fucking rifle.” Jason scampered off, and when he returned George took a step to the side and gestured. “Shoulder your rifle,” he said.
“What?”
He pointed his hand again. “Point your rifle, I want to see something.”