Hogs #4:Snake Eaters Read Online Free Page B

Donut franchise in sight, A-Bomb figured he’d kill a few hours by taking Hawkins up on the sentry thing. Which he assumed was a serious offer, even though the captain had been smirking when he made it. So he went and asked him about it after Doberman took off.
    “Uh, with all due respect, Captain,” said Hawkins. “And no offense intended, but you’re Air Force.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Do I get one of those 203 grenade launchers? Or do I have to settle for an MP-5?”
    “Neither.”
    “Have to use what I came with, huh?” A-Bomb slapped the holster of his customized .45, which was wedged inside his customized flight suit. “Fair enough.”
    “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
    “Why?” asked A-Bomb. “Is that a job requirement?”
    A Delta-Force sergeant listening nearby took Hawkins aside. A-Bomb waited as they stepped a few paces away, talking in voices too soft for him to hear. Finally Hawkins turned back to the pilot and pointed at him.
    “Don’t get yourself hurt,” Hawkins yelled. Shaking his head, he stalked off toward the helos at the other end of the base.
    “Captain, my name is Sergeant Coors,” the NCO informed A-Bomb. His mouth spread into the standard issue Special Ops smile: half-sneer, half-inside-joke. “I’ll be your tour guide this afternoon, if you’re up to it.”
    “Shit yeah, I’m up to it,” said A-Bomb. He pounded the sergeant’s shoulder to emphasize his point. Coors was about A-Bomb’s height but not nearly his weight. The Delta operator grimaced and nodded.
    “We have a post out this way we need manned,” said the sergeant, leading the way.
    “Great, Beerman,” said A-Bomb, following. “You sergeants are all right.”
    “Well thank you, sir. Some of my best friends are captains.”
    “What’d you say to Hawkins to convince him?”
    “I told him I was going to run your ass ragged,” said Coors. “Sir.”
    “Shit, my ass is so big it’s going to take a lot more than you,” said A-Bomb. “But take your best shot.”
    Coors led A-Bomb across the cement landing strip behind the two net-camouflaged helicopters to what seemed to be a pair of low sand dunes. In fact, the dunes had been constructed by the sappers from canvas and dirt to conceal Fort Apache’s small motor pool, which consisted of one slightly banged-up FAV.
    Officially the abbreviation stood for “fast attack vehicle.” Unofficially, it stood for a lot of other things, all of which began with an “f” word other than “fast.”
    The craft was a two-tiered dune buggy straight out of The Road Warrior movie . With a low-profile and extra-large mufflers, the FAV was a Go Kart with guns. The driver manned the bottom cage; the passenger sat on a platform behind him working a machine-gun, TOW missile setup, and maybe a grenade launcher.
    Unfortunately, this particular unit had been stripped of weapons. It did, however, move pretty fast. Grit sandpapered A-Bomb’s face as the FAV revved northeastwards to a high point along the western wadi that marked one side of the base. Though technically still part of the desert, the wasteland was far more solid here than further south in Saudi Arabia. There were short scrubby bushes and occasional outcroppings of something similar to weedy grass.
    There were also a lot of rocks. Coors didn’t miss one, jostling A-Bomb’s head against the tubular steel backrest. They stopped next to what seemed to be a large pile of shifting sand, but which proved to be a yellow-brown tarp on a row of sandbags when A-Bomb jumped on it from the top of the FAV. He’d never have thought sandbags could be so hard.
    “This is a fallback position,” Coors explained, gesturing with the MP-5 he had slung over his shoulder with a long strap. The bags made a slight arc that would provide cover for one or two men. He thumbed northward. “Where we’re going is closer to the road.”
    A gray black line edged in front of a series of low hills