"Report." Ricky was mouthing off in the background, some bit about my attitude towards civilians in a foreign country and command's creative use of my head and ass. It must have clipped through the radio because the boys were laughing as they checked in. They better have their scramblers on or we'd stick out like a firework during Ramadan. Special Forces are the only inbred blokes stupid enough to laugh during a firefight. It's what my CO had disgustedly told my unit before we got shipped out. It was our worst habit during training, even when they used live bullets. There were a lot of bets about it getting us killed back home.
"We're pretty damn sure he's on a rooftop somewhere," Terry said, smartly. I rolled my eyes and tested my wrist. I didn't puke. I pictured him leaning out from behind the cover of a house, his rucksack to the side, Glock out. Command had given us all standard "Indian wear", loose fitting, darkly colored, cotton shirts and darker slacks, you could hide a sidearm under them fairly inconspicuously. Terry was sandy haired and burned easy in the sun, he stuck out in the crowd. He'd had to shove a tube of sunscreen into his pack, and his cheeks were already turning red by the time the sniper went off.
"Ricky's mouth volunteered him to run point, so he's got two options," I let go of the button and gave the boys a minute to think about their mouths, insubordination and bullets. They were pretty intelligent for all the twatting about. They'd get it.
"Option One. He can run down the fucking street while you cover him and check up on the angle of the bullets." If they were having a laugh, they were keeping their fingers off their radios while they did it.
"Option Two. He can go out the back and make a circle until he finds a way up and try and take this mucker from behind. Either way we're parking it for a bit."
Ricky looked pale, but stripped his gear out of his pack, pulling out a semi automatic pistol, and assembling most if his rifle before sliding it into a dragbag and slipping it over his shoulder. He shoved a hand through buzzed black hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. Climbing hooks went on either arm, clipped to the metal loops on the inside. He double checked their caps before locking a few extra clips on the strap under his belt and a knife to the inside of his left wrist, under his sleeve.
"What if there's more than one?" Mikey said, breaking the silence. The radio crackled as he scratched his beard.
"What if there's a bunch?" Davey followed up, laughing.
"Shut up." I told them, "We'll help him count."
"He's…uh… He's not taking Option One is he? Because he should probably let us in on it about now," Timmy said, his high voice cracking as he laughed at his own cheeky fucking remark. His hair was longer and darker than Ricky's and if he hadn't dyed it fucking purple he'd blend in better than Ricky did. I believed in kicking down insubordination quickly, but I hadn't noticed it wasn't a shade of black til after we got here.
"No, he said to kiss his mother for him and went for it, but I told him I'd already done that for both ends of her and sent him out the back." I told Timmy, dropping my pack and setting up. The man of the house stormed into the back, his feet sounding off even against the thick oriental carpet. I'd be hot too, if I were him, but I wasn't so I could give the steam off my piss about it. I had a hole in my fucking wrist and we still didn't know where our mark was. I should make up, but I wanted to ask questions with my Glock right about now.
Continue to Part Three