Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(29)
“Knock it off, Jen,” Rio says, not quite playfully.
“Why, Rio told me she ran into a pole,” Strand says with a wink. “And I am honor-bound to believe her.”
“You should have been there when that big old Texan boy, the one with the bandaged ear, came after her, thinking she was easy prey, and she pulls out that big knife of hers—”
“Jen!”
“Knife?”
“It’s a keepsake,” Rio says quickly. “You know, a souvenir. I think it’s something the A-rabs carry just for show.”
“‘I will stick this in your guts and push it till the point comes out of your mouth.’ That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Rio?”
Jenou bats her eyes at Rio, who is not interested in being teased, not right then, not when she’s hoping Strand doesn’t notice that she stinks of solvent and oil, not to mention just stinking from the lack of a shower after a sweaty morning spent unloading a truck.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rio says. “Let me just reassemble my rifle.”
She sits back down and looks at the pieces laid out. It’s a complex job, but one she can do blindfolded by now. But having Strand watch with a show of interest makes her self-conscious. Her best time is four minutes and six seconds. If she does it that fast won’t she look like . . . well, like a soldier? But if she slows down the others will spot it immediately and the reaction will not be kind.
“Who’s got a watch with a second hand?” Cat asks, batting her eyes at Rio, obviously perfectly aware of Rio’s dilemma. And that settles it. Rio can only do her best.
Slide bolt into receiver. This is always tricky and usually involves some wiggling of the piece, but Rio has it down to a single, smooth insertion. Then slot the operating rod back into the housing, slide it back to make sure it catches the rod. Then the follower assembly—drop and slide. Bullet guide, follower arm, operating rod catch, holding pin, check the movement, slide in the long spring, lever the assembly into the stock, pop in the trigger guard, lock it down, check the bolt, squeeze the trigger to earn a pleasantly layered metallic click and . . .
“Five minutes, thirty-eight seconds,” Geer says. “Hell, I can beat that, Richlin.”
“Not my best,” she mutters, and when she looks up, Strand’s expression is not congratulatory but serious. His forehead wrinkles, his brows lower over his eyes, shadowing them. His mouth is set in a stern, pressed line, and it takes him longer than she would like for him to ease it into a pleasant smile.
“Okay,” Rio says with false cheer to conceal her unease, “let’s see if Sarge is feeling generous.”
She takes Strand’s arm, actually clamps a hand on his bicep—and draws him outside into the light and heat and dust. She looks around for someplace private, any place, but she is surrounded by a half a square mile of tents, temporary huts, cooking fires, male soldiers naked to the waist, piles of discarded crates that once held canned food, the cans that came from those crates, parked jeeps, and deuce-and-a-halfs rumbling by in clouds of dust.
One of the parked jeeps apparently belongs to Strand, at least for now, and he has a corporal dozing in the driver’s seat, helmet tilted forward to shield his eyes, feet up on the dashboard.
Sergeant Cole is sitting on a camp chair drinking coffee with O’Malley and another sergeant. Rio says, “Come on,” and hauls Strand over.
“Sarge, meet Lieutenant Braxton, a friend of mine from back home. Strand, Sergeants Cole, O’Malley, and Alvarez.”
Cole stands, pivots, salutes, then shakes Strand’s outstretched hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”
“And you, Sergeant, I’ve heard a bit about you through Rio’s letters.” He raises a finger, forestalling a response, and reaches into his inner pocket to pull out a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. “Rio happened to mention that you enjoy an occasional cigar. I don’t know if these are any good, I picked them up in a little shop in Casablanca . . .”
Strand unwraps the parcel, revealing six fat brown cigars. Cole swallows hard. “Those are Cubans. Those are the real thing!”
“Well, they’re yours,” Strand says.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. I take that very kindly. So, just what is it I can do for you in response to this very, very, very welcome bribe?”
“Well, I’m only here for twenty-four hours, and I was wondering . . .” He shrugs.
“I see.” Cole pretends to consider this carefully. “Sergeant O’Malley, I wonder if we might be able to rustle up a twenty-four-hour pass for Private Richlin.”
“Wait,” Strand says. He darts over to his jeep, feels around inside a canvas carryall, and produces a bottle of rye whiskey, which he carries back to O’Malley. “I don’t suppose you’re a drinking man?”
“I’d have thought an officer would have more sense than to even ask that question.” O’Malley hefts the bottle and says, “I do believe you’re correct that we’re being bribed, Jedron. And a damned fine bit of bribery it is too. Make it a case next time, Lieutenant, and you can have Richlin for the whole rest of the war.”
The pass appears with record speed—it’s possible the rye will be shared with the captain. Strand dismisses his corporal to the mess tent and settles behind the wheel with Rio beside him. They drive off, and then Rio sees Jack. Jack is shirtless, stripped down to his boxer shorts and boots, wielding a shovel and digging a new latrine trench. He is bathed in sweat that rolls intriguingly down his smooth, tanned chest. He spots Rio, then does a double take, eyes narrowing as he realizes who is driving.