The Devil's Waters - By David L. Robbins Page 0,16
to attend.
With the great hut emptied, LB climbed the ladder to duck into his tent beside Doc’s. The two preferred the roominess of the Barn, having the Ping-Pong table to themselves, and quiet after hours, so they made their racks in tents on the top of a high, broad shelf below the steel rafters and ductwork. The rest of the team was quartered in CLUs, contained living units, modular trailers stacked on top of each other throughout the camp.
The Barn served as the PJs’ nerve center at Camp Lemonnier. A long, narrow table was the domain of the chute riggers. In the Ready Room, the unit’s comm and intel computers fanned themselves. The briefing room also showed movies. On the broad concrete floor, rows of hardware and vehicles waited for action, folded and strapped to skids, each able to be dropped onto land or water. The fridge held cases of bottled water to offset the constant African heat.
Doc and LB agreed that Djibouti was a dusty, hot skillet where litter and grit rode on a bug-filled wind and no bush lacked a thorn or poison leaf. The locals were treacherous or high, and when they weren’t, they were pitifully poor and heartbreakingly earnest. The national beer was a weak joke. For the two of them, the Barn was the best place in the whole country.
LB stretched out on his sleeping bag for a quick nap. He grew drowsy fast. Before he could drop off to sleep, boot steps below opened his eyes. A cheery voice called up.
“Hey!”
LB muttered. This was his own fault; he’d left the tent flap open and his bare feet hanging out where Wally could see them.
Wally hadn’t been scheduled on today’s training drop. Too bad. More than once, LB had seen him actually land on the pallet.
LB had known him for fifteen years. Back then, Wally Bloom was a lanky cadet at the Air Force Academy, the best jumper at the school, captain of the competition team. LB had been a young Ranger lieutenant, passing through the academy for a month of high-altitude jump training. Wally was the instructor who gave it. They’d crossed paths that long-ago summer and never got untangled. Now Wally was an even better jumper, the unit’s top CRO, and LB’s captain. PJs weren’t easy men to command, though Wally tried to make it look like they were.
“Hey,” LB answered without sitting up on his sleeping bag.
“You going to lunch?”
“No. Bring me a sandwich.”
“How’d the RAMZ jump go this morning?”
LB folded hands across his chest. He’d learned to sleep like a soldier, accustomed to the ground.
“Depends on your perspective.”
The unit gathered around the big table and on bar stools. Missing were Wally and Robey.
At 1405, LB stepped outside to look for them. He found both CROs just inside the chain-link gate. Wally leaned on an ATV, listening while Robey spoke animatedly.
LB approached into the sun. “Meeting’s started.”
Robey stilled his gestures. At LB’s arrival, his face bore the same simmering mix of anger and restraint he’d had in the water.
Wally answered. “Robey tells me you lit him up pretty good this morning.”
“Did he? If the lieutenant will come inside, I’ll gladly give him an afternoon session. He can tell me which one he liked better.”
Wally shook his head. LB didn’t like dealing with Wally’s disapproval through sunglasses. He preferred to see a man’s eyes, the giveaway. Underwater, calm or panic showed there before it did in the body. Same thing in combat or a storm, or poker. The dying always died first in the eyes.
“Wasn’t his fault,” Wally said. “The right-side toggle tore when his canopy opened. He only had half control of the chute. Sounds like he did a helluva job landing anywhere near the RAMZ.”
“That so, LT?”
Robey nodded, holding something in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The rear door of the Barn opened. Doc shouted for them to come on, then retreated into the cool.
LB turned to Robey. “Sir?”
The young CRO licked his lips. “Look. This is my first deployment. That makes me the new guy. I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut.”
“You had no problem talking to the captain here.”
Wally raised a hand. “I ran into Quincy at lunch. He told me what happened. I approached Robey.”
LB asked again, “So why’d you stay quiet and take it? I was wrong.”
“Didn’t see the need.”
“For what?”
“To show you up.”
“Really? You’re worried about making me look bad?”
“Yeah. You’re LB. You’re the man. It’s called respect.”