«Bleach,» the little girl blurted, with a «what, you don't know bleach when you see it, whitey?» look in her eye.
«Really? Okay, and what's this?» he asked, holding up a translucent bottle of clear liquid.
« 'Monia?»
«Right. And what do you use 'em for?»
«Cleanin' stuff,» said an older gentleman in the second row.
«Well, I admit I've used them for that, but what I usually use them for is blowin' stuff up.» He could see he got their attention then. «You can use these, and some other common products, to produce explosives.» To their obvious amazement, he then proceeded to demonstrate the entire process of making a pipe bomb from start to finish.
«Now, you can get slow fuse for the detonator from a gun shop, they use it for hobby cannons and some muzzle loaders, or I'll show you a couple of ways to make it yourself. Also, later on I'll be showing you ways to make a nifty trip-wire booby trap with a pistol or rifle cartridge and some string. If you put more liquid in the mix you get slurry, and I'll show you some neat stuff to do with slurry later. But first, I want you all to make your own pipe bombs, being very careful to follow the steps exactly as I showed you. Afterwards, we'll go over to that old house on the corner, the one that was a crack joint, and blow that SOB sky-high.»
Most of them seemed to like that idea.
* * *
«You need to brush your teeth more often, young man,» said the medic, peering at the ten-year-old's molars. «How long has that tooth been aching?»
«A'out a mo'h, ah 'ess.»
«Well, you need a filling, maybe a root canal.» A portion of the mission that had just evolved was providing medical support to the communities they trained. It disgusted Sergeant First Class Gleason that her country—with the best health care system in the world—would permit the degree of health neglect that existed in these communities. They should have sent in the Berets long before now; some of their «hearts and minds» techniques might even have done something for the gang problem.
Not that there was one now. That problem had loomed large in the minds of early planners, but it turned out to be basically moot. All the gang members were in the Guard and generally stayed there. Local Guard commanders, when first faced with desertion problems, took a cut a la the Gordian Knot solution. The death penalty had never been removed from the books and local commanders resorted to it more often than not in situations where a soldier had deserted as opposed to taking an extended AWOL.
It was not hard to spot deserters. Police forces were exempt from call-up, being effectively an extension of the war effort when the Posleen landed, and they were on the lookout. Military personnel were, as in the old days, required to be in uniform at all times and, although the local commanders were lenient about weekend passes, if there was a male of military age not in uniform who was spotted by the police he was invariably stopped and asked for his deferment card. Since deferment was now a line on the driver's license, a false deferment card turned up with a simple call to the station or a check of the carcomp. It was a nerve-wracking stop for the cops; the deserters knew what could await them, and most reacted violently. Usually if a suspected deserter was spotted the cop would call for backup and shadow; only when enough force was in place would the stop would be made.
It occasionally made for a comic opera when some poor unsuspecting policeman from another force would find himself suddenly surrounded by fellow officers with drawn guns. But it made the cops pretty damn mad at the Guard commanders when the suspect just said «Fuck you,» and pulled out a pistol, suicide being preferable to hanging.
So now the gangs were extinct and only the young, old, female and frail were left. And those people needed better health care than they were getting. The medic looked in question at the boy's mother.
«Ain't no dentist, no doctors neither. They either in the Army or they too expensive. It's a all-day wait at Grady, an' maybe they do something, maybe they don'. So, what you say, soldier-girl?»
The matronly Sergeant Gleason, a recent graduate of the all-inclusive Special Forces Medic course and mother of four, smiled pleasantly. «I say I pull the tooth and do an implant. That way he'll grow back a new, good one. While I'm in there, I'll do any fillings he needs and a general preventive work-over.
«For you, son, since I see your eyes getting round at the thought, I'll be putting you under, so you won't feel a thing. And for you, Mom, I'll tell you it won't cost you a blessed dime.» A military nurse for fourteen years, Gleason jumped at the first chance to move to Combat Arms. The choice of Special Forces was difficult for her family, her children especially, to understand, but if she was going to be a combat medic it was going to be the best there was to offer.
Special Forces was designed from its very inception to be a unit that spent most of its time away from the regular force structure and logistic tail. That meant that the team must be self-reliant when it came to medical support. Since it was generally difficult to find an MD willing to go through Special Forces Q course, the SF had to grow their own. While SF medics were not and never would be MDs, they were nearly as well-trained as Physician's Assistants in the area of trauma medicine.
While on a mission they were authorized to perform minor surgery, prescribe drugs and perform minor dental procedures. What actually went on was something else. Although every medic really did know that they were not the equal of a drunk MD on his worst day, sometimes they were all that was available. In situations just like this, throughout the world, SF medics had saved lives with emergency appendectomies, tonsillectomies, tumor removal, benign and malignant, and other actions that would have them burned at the stake by the American Medical Association.
Sergeant First Class Gleason was acting in the best tradition of SF canker mechanics since the Berets had been in existence.
«Thank you, soldier-girl. He says, Okay!» said the relieved mother.
«I do not!»
«Don't you sass your mother. That tooth's just gonna hurt worse if'n you don't get it fixed.»
«She's right, you know,» said Gleason. «Always trust your mother.»
«Okay, I guess,» said the child, nervously. «You gonna put me out, right?»
«Yep, with new Galactic medicines so I don't have to worry about dosage and you don't have to worry about aftereffects. When you want to do it?»
«Can it wait 'til tomorrow?» asked the mother. «I gotta go to work an' I wanna be there.»
«Sure, anytime. In the meantime, son, you brush good tonight with this toothbrush, and rinse your mouth with this rinse. I'll see you tomorrow at, say, ten?»
«Dat be fine, doctor,» said the mother.
«That is one thing I am not. I am, however, licensed to perform minor procedures and I put this in that category. See you tomorrow.» The two walked out, the youngster clutching his toothbrush and mouthwash like talismans.
«Last client, doc,» said the team leader, Captain Thompson, stepping aside to let the pair through the door.
«Good, I'm about done for. We got any new orders?»
«Yeah, I'll detail it at the team meeting, but we're supposed to wrap up Atlanta. We're going to Richmond next.»
«I wondered if they'd consider sending us overseas.»
«I think, given our area of responsibility, that we'll probably stay in country.»
«Meaning let Africa go hang?» asked Gleason with a grimace.
«Hell,» said Master Sergeant Mark Ersin, wandering into the room and the conversation, «let Africa hang. We've got enough to do here.»