Ian Slater - Warshot

As Lana saw more and more men being carried in on the stretchers, she felt a growing sense of helplessness, and knew that the lucky ones had been those who had died on the ice floes in hypothermia’s final, perversely warm, sleep. The men being brought in here at Dutch Harbor would have to undergo months of pain-filled surgery during facial reconstruction and limb amputation — if they survived that long. Of course, a few, she knew, would come through it stronger than before — like Ray, who had the “stick-to-itiveness,” as her father used to describe it, to fight the pain as well as the deep depression and, worst of all, the hatred of one’s own image in the mirror. Ray had come back — not merely to survive, but to go on, after being decorated for surface attacks against enemy subs off California. Robert, too, also navy, captain of the USS Reagan, and young David, a Marine Corps graduate now with the joint British/American SAS/Delta commandos, were of the same stuff. Always pushing themselves. Lana was as dismayed by her brothers as she was proud of them. No matter what anyone said, she was convinced there was something very different about men’s and women’s psychological makeup. Even her father, who first wanted Robert to rest on his laurels after winning the Navy Cross for action above and beyond the call of duty in the terrible Arctic Hunter/Killer battles off Spitzbergen Trench, was now speaking admiringly of Robert’s decision, after a near-miss escape from a ruptured SSN during the Arctic sub battles, to volunteer for SEAL duty— considered the toughest in the navy. Not only had Robert upgraded the “escape” drills, but he had submitted his name for the SAL, Special Assignment List.

Young David was no better, Lana thought proudly. Quieter than either Ray or Robert, who was oldest, he’d been bitten by the same warrior bug. All three were married, David just, Ray with two children, and Robert’s wife Rosemary with one on the way. So what made them do it? Hadn’t they done enough? Lana thought, too, of Frank— well, of course he was no better, just as anxious to go off into danger — to prove what? None were fools — all had admitted to her in their different ways, though certainly not among themselves, that their fear in action sometimes all but paralyzed them. So why did they do it? Was it no more than sibling rivalry? Still, that didn’t explain Frank. Her anger at them was her love — for she admired them enormously at the same time, as she did Frank. Whatever the reason, they were brave, and unlike the sleazeballs of Jay La Roche et al., selfishness had no part of it.

When the young lieutenant from Freeman’s headquarters round the Australian, Lewis, in full winter combat uniform complete with white overlay, his face covered in white camouflage lotion against the reflection of the weak spring sun from the snow, Lewis was perfectly still, the stock of his beloved Haskins M500 single-shot, bolt-action, sniper rifle firm against his cheek as he took steady aim through the rifle’s ten-power scope. Only one of its.50-caliber bullets would be needed to take out a man at a distance of 1.2 miles. An enemy would be hit before he ever heard the sharp crack, the depleted uranium slug exploding his head like a melon. A combination HE and incendiary bullet from the same Haskins was capable of striking a much bigger target, like a chopper, exploding its fuel tank, which Lewis had amply demonstrated against a Hind A gunship when the Siberian chopper had followed the SAS/Delta team during their attack on the midget sub pens.

“Sergeant Lewis?” Freeman’s young lieutenant inquired.

“Who are you, mate?” asked Lewis, not stirring a muscle, the Haskins straight as a die, betraying no movement.

“Lieutenant Stimson, sir, General Freeman’s—”

“All right, all right — shush now, and for Gawd’s sake get yer loaf down. Heard you a bloody mile away. Not exactly Captain Thunderbolt, are ya?”

Young Stimson was nonplussed. “Captain Thunderbolt?” He thought of an A-10.

“Yeah — Thunderbolt,” repeated Lewis, still not moving. “Bushranger — y’know — highwayman back ‘ome. Robbed the bloody government and kept it for himself. That’s the ticket, eh? What’s on your mind?”

“General Freeman’s HQ—”

“Uh-oh,” said Aussie, still not moving. “Bloody trouble…”

Stimson didn’t know whether the Australian was referring to Freeman or his target — whatever it was.

“Ah, I don’t under—” began Stimson.

“ ‘Ere,” said Lewis as he rolled away from the Haskins, slapping out the bipod legs, his impish grin made fierce-looking by the camouflage cream. “Go on, ‘ave a Captain Cook. Polar bears!”

Stimson had heard Australians spoke another language, but he got the gist of it, lay down on the patch of snow and lifted the rifle.

“Fuzz button’s on your right,” instructed Lewis, and in a second the blobs, probably a quarter mile away, suddenly jumped into focus. It was a woman, or rather one part of her, that Lewis had zeroed in on.

“How’d you like to grab onto those, mate?” he asked young Stimson. “Biggest nungas I’ve ever seen. Whadda ya reckon?”

Stimson was stunned by the magnification — the woman’s bust completely filling the scope. Then she turned and he caught a glimpse of her face. The contrast from what he’d expected was so striking, his eye started back from the scope and he looked up incredulously at the Australian. “She’s…” He didn’t know quite how to put it for a second. “Ugly!”

“You reckon?” said Aussie, who in a second was down by the rifle on the offside, using his left eye to sight. “Ah, she’s not that bad, son. Call ‘emselves Polar Bear Club. Skinny-dip through the fucking ice.”

Stimson was standing up, brushing the snow off him. “She’s — She’s got a moustache!”

“Aw, don’t be fussy, mate! Give her a Gillette for a present, I will. Fix her up in a flash. Anyway, it’s not ‘er bloody moustache I’m interested in.” Lewis winked.

Stimson was still trying to regain his composure as an officer and a gentleman.

“Her tits, mate!” said Lewis. “Didn’t you see ‘em? Magnificent. I don’t want one of those skinny birds — fucking model. I want big nungas.” Lewis thrust his hands, bowl shaped, out in front of him. “To here — know what I mean?”

“I get the general idea.”

Lewis bent over, snapped the cover on the sight, and clipped the bipod legs beneath the barrel. “How long you been over here, Stimmo?”

“Two months.”

“Two —no wonder you’re particular,” said Aussie. “Listen, mate — that’s the first bird I’ve seen worth looking at. That Yesov — the bastard — he’s hiding ‘em all somewhere. Shipped all their younger women west. Conscription, you see. You remember that. If we’re heading back into Baikal — you remember that.” The Aussie paused. “ ‘Course, back there big tits probably mean a bra full of hand grenades comin’ at you. Gotta be careful.” He glanced back down the river. “I agree with you ‘bout Olga’s moustache.” He made a face. “Hairy armpits, too — hairy armpits are the limit, Stimmo. Pong too much. Right? Still — all the same in the dark, eh?”

Stimson had never met an Australian before. He’d heard they could be rough, but—

“So what’s Freeman want?”

“Don’t know. I’m just the gofer.”

“No hint?”

“No hint.”

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it? Here I am, R and R — well-deserved, I might add — and first time Yesov farts, I’m called up. I tell you, Stimmo,” said Lewis, smacking the young American on the back, “it’s diabolical. What’s your first name, mate?”