HUNT CLUB
Copyright©2003 by Ed Howdershelt
ISBN 1-932693-09-2
Caution: Some Erotic Content
Prologue:
Twenty-year-old Becky Charlton hunkered in the corner of the Andlissor Baptist Church's business office, clutching an ornate sword-shaped letter opener as she hissingly mumbed semicoherent, half-remembered abjurations of Satan from Bible passages and gasped for breath.
She felt lightheaded and that added to her terror. If she fainted, she'd have no chance at all, and the... the thing... was near; she could feel it... Another shock raced through her as she realized that the demon had come into her church! How could a demon enter a church?!
A bit more than a little overweight, Becky's absolute, blind terror and her frantic dash from the pulpit she'd been dusting had winded her completely. Holding the letter opener stiffly in front of her, heedless of the other people in the office, she stared starkly at the nebulous figure that appeared in the hallway beyond the door and keened in terror.
Pastor Robert "Bobby" Adams, his heart still racing from the shock of Becky's crashing entrance, unfroze himself and stood up slowly to lean across his desk and peer through the doorway.
The corridor was empty, of course. With a mental sigh, he came to the conclusion that Becky had finally flipped out completely. When she'd joined his quiet little East Texas church, she'd seemed more routinely intense about her religiousness than anyone he'd met in a long time. He'd actually spent some time trying to help her to moderate some of her beliefs a bit, to no avail.
She couldn't clearly describe the demons she'd claimed to have seen back in Virginia and North Carolina, but said that she'd been seeing them since her childhood, when her daddy had been stationed at various Air Force bases.
Her first husband, an Army corporal, had put up with her hyper-religious mindset and periodic demon-sightings for almost two years, but then she'd seen one at the Ft. Monroe Commissary one Friday evening.
She'd had a screaming, frozen-food-throwing fit before fleeing in panic to the parking lot. After driving their pickup truck through two closed gates and being chased at speeds above sixty by the MP's, Becky's flight ended against a concrete pillar that protected a narrow casemate archway.
A couple of weeks later, Becky was released from a Newport News, Va. psych ward, and a few months later she was also released from her marriage. She moved back to Texas to live with her parents and joined the Andlissor Baptist Church.
As a church volunteer she'd been tireless and invaluable, but she'd managed to make a number of people uncomfortable with her incessant, strident talk of demons. Quite a few of the other church volunteers preferred not to work with her and Pastor Adams had been specifically requested by the board of directors not to assign her to the daycare center.
Ushering all but his assistant, Evelyn Bush, out of the office, Adams whisperingly told Evelyn to close the office door.
Giving him a fisheye look, Evelyn hesitantly said, "Uh, I really don't think that's a good idea, Bob. Closing the door might scare her even more."
"Look at her, Eve. How much more frightened is it possible to be?"
Evelyn stood straight and declared, "All right, then; let's say that it'll scare me more, too. She came busting in here screaming about a demon and now she's ready to stick somebody with that great big ol' letter opener. No, sir. If you want that door closed, you'll close it behind me."
Adams sighed and put a hand on her arm placatingly.
"Okay, Eve. But I'd prefer to have another female present until the police arrive. Can you do that for me?"
Evelyn, normally a rather meek woman, met his gaze firmly and said, "Pastor Adams, if you don't want to be in here alone with her, I suggest you leave with me and let the police handle her."
Trying to assume command, Adams hissed, "All right, then! Don't close the door, but stay in the room while I try to talk to her! Will you at least do that much for me?"
Without waiting for her answer he turned to begin cautiously approaching Becky Charlton, speaking softly and asking her to put down the letter opener. Becky stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, the returned her attention to the doorway as jumbled thoughts flitted through her mind.
'He can't see it? It's finally come for me. Big as daylight, right here in my own church! How can it come into a church?! Why can't he see it?!'
Becky had recognized the demon. She'd seen it walking among the people at the Vietnam War memorial in Washington when her parents had taken her there. It had appeared then as it had by the pulpit; in the form of a red-haired woman who had been able to follow her wherever she'd run or hidden and asked her in a pleading voice to 'just listen for a moment'.
Ha. Sure. She wouldn't be turned into one of Satan's minions. Not her. Not Becky Charlton.
In a blind panic she'd run until she couldn't run anymore, then she'd found herself in an alleyway. When she'd heard footsteps nearby, she'd been ready to run again, but her father appeared at the mouth of the alley.
He'd approached her with quieting words and taken her in his arms and she'd felt safe at last as he carried her to the street. That's where Becky saw her mother talking to the demon, thanking it for its assistance in finding her.
Becky came unglued, screaming and struggling until one of her flailing arms knocked her father's glasses off and into a street, where they were crushed by a passing car. It was then that he knelt and placed her over his knee to spank her twice rather smartly, then yanked her upright and yelled at her to shut the fuck up and settle down.
When he then tried to hand her to her mother so he could retrieve his broken glasses, Becky had stared at the demon, sucked in a deep breath, screamed, and tried to run again, but the demon caught her before she could get a dozen steps and handed panic-stricken Becky to her parents, then left.
Pastor Adams continued his cautious, soft-spoken approach. From the depths of Becky's panic-addled mind bubbled the thought that since a demon couldn't enter a church, this couldn't be a real church. That meant that Pastor Bob couldn't be a real pastor, and he was almost close enough to touch her. He was trying to get the letter opener away from her!
Locking in on the thought that he must be in league with the devil, Becky slashed at his hand. Adams hurriedly reached for his handkerchief to try to control the bleeding as he realized it was just a scratch and thanked his deity that she had a letter opener instead of a kitchen knife.
Gathering all that she seemed to have left within her, Becky shakily got to her feet and lunged at Adams in an attempt to plant the letter opener in his chest. Adams looked up from his injured hand to see Becky rushing toward him and froze.
That's when Anna Corinth moved quickly from the hallway to step between Becky and Adams. She disarmed Becky and shoved her hard enough to set her on her ass against the wall.
Adams stared at the tall, red-haired woman who'd saved him. He'd never seen her in the church before. For that matter, he'd never seen her before at all, of that he was sure. He'd remember a woman like that. He belatedly wondered how the hell she'd gotten to Becky so quickly from the hallway.
As the demon had entered the room, Becky had screamed one of those piercing, horror movie screams that seems to go on forever. As the demon had snatched the letter opener and shoved her, Becky had screamed again and fallen. She screamed again as the demon approached her. And again, as the demon knelt in front of her and spoke to her.
"Please, Becky, this isn't necessary at all. Don't be frightened."
Becky screamed again as the demon put a hand on her shoulder.
"Becky. Becky, listen to me. Calm down."
Not a chance. Becky started flailing at the demon as she screamed. Looking down at the pathetic woman through another such scream, Anna Corinth knelt to place a hand over Becky's mouth and pin her flailing head to the wall as she spoke to her. Becky's heart seemed to stop with terror and a great rushing, ringing noise filled her ears.
"Becky," Corinth said quietly, "I won't hurt you. Do you understand?"
She repeated her words twice before Becky's stark, panic-stricken stare ended. Becky's eyes rolled upwards and closed as she ceased her struggles and went limp against the wall.
Standing up, Anna looked at the letter opener for a moment, then wiped it thoroughly with a tissue from a nearby desk and handed it to Adams. After another glance at Becky, she turned and walked out of the office past Adams and his assistant and strode down the hallway to the side entrance. Once outside, she walked between the church van and the building and disappeared.
* * *
I let the answering machine do its job, as always, with 'Hi, there. If you're someone I'm likely to call back, leave a message at the beep.'
"Hi, Ed," said Anna. "I'll be..."
Picking up the phone, I said, "I'm here. How did it go with Charlton?"
"Not well at all. Remember Jack Macer?"
"Oooo. That bad, huh?"
"No. Worse. She stuck her pastor with a letter opener."
"Damn. Well, being a sensitive doesn't necessarily mean that someone's going to be sensible, does it? Where are you now?"
"About twenty miles from Spring Hill. I have to stop in Pasco. Make it an hour, I think."
"You gonna want coffee or gin when you get here?"
"A gin, probably. Thanks. How was your day?"
"So-so. Hardesty's wife called again."
Anna's tone softened as she replied, "Oh? News already?"
"Yup. I'm invited to the funeral."
"What was it? A heart attack?"
"Yup. Too much good living, I guess. And it didn't help that he was so far out that it took the Coast Guard twenty minutes to find his boat. He died on the way to the hospital."
"You don't sound too broken up. Are you okay about it?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I won't be going to the funeral, though. It's in California."
"He may have left you something, you know."
"Doubtful, but if he did, they can mail it. Or not. He was an old acquaintance, not a close friend."
"Okay. See you in a while, then. Bye."
She clicked off and I hung up thinking about Hardesty. Age 55; only three years older than me. A heart attack. Damn. He hadn't been a close friend, but he'd shared some rather trying times with me long ago in another part of the world.
Chapter One
The slight mental pressure of someone's approaching presence intruded on my reading. Off-duty time or not, the presence felt like Lt. Hardesty, so I decided to look busy. I put my book face down on my bunk and picked up a clipboard that I'd swiped from supply, then poised a pen over some old supply forms that had come with the clipboard.
When Hardesty stopped in the sandbag-bunker doorway and blocked the light, I sighed and said, "Rushing me won't get things done any sooner, Wilkins."
"I'm not Wilkins," said Lt. Hardesty.
Pretending surprise, I stood up and said, "Oh, hi, LT. What's up? Did you come to save me from these damned supply forms?"
He grinned as his eyebrows and hands came up protestingly.
"Oh, hell, no, Sarge. If you don't do 'em, I'll have to. Screw that. There's a meeting at fifteen hundred. All NCO's."
Looking mildly concerned, I said, "Well, I'd better check with my social secretary before I commit to anything, of course. I'm booked pretty solid, but I think I may be able to spare the Army a few minutes this afternoon."
He grinned and waved as he turned to go. "I'm sure the Army will be properly grateful. Later, Sarge."
Once he was outside some distance, I set down the clipboard and picked up my book for another two hours of reading before the meeting.
2nd Lt. Hardesty wasn't typical. Most butterbar lieutenants had difficulties with anything not clearly delineated in an Army-issue manual, but Hardesty had a tendency to go with our group's flow when possible.
An example had been when I'd started carrying a .45 pistol loaded with hollowpoint ammo. He'd questioned that because I already had an M-16 and there was nothing in my records to indicate proficiency with the pistol.
I'd drawn the .45 from its holster, aimed at a rat that was scampering between the concertina barricades some thirty paces distant, and fired, all within two seconds or so. Part of the rat seemed to explode and it tumbled down the hillside.
Reholstering the .45, I said, "The record's incomplete, Lt."
Hardesty had stared at me for a moment before saying, "Uh, so I see. Jesus. But still..."
Sgt. Andrews bellowed, "Damn good shot, Sarge!" as he approached, then, "LT, a lot of us carry things that aren't exactly regulation."
He hauled out his black-bladed Kershaw bowie knife and said, "With all due respect, we know what we're doing out there, sir. Don't try to fix what ain't broke, y'know?"
Handing the knife to Hardesty, Andrews said, "We just feel better 'cause we have 'em."
Hardesty examined the knife for a moment, then shrugged, handed the knife back, and said, "What the hell. If you're willing to haul extra stuff around, go ahead."
That example doesn't mean that Hardesty always shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure, whatever," or let the NCO's push him around. It simply means that Hardesty listened to us. Heard us. Tried to understand us.
All that brigade and above cared about were body counts and being able to say that a chunk of turf had been 'pacified' within someone's timetable, so area sweeps had become hurried affairs that created far too damned many casualties.
Thursday's sweep had been a trip through the Seven Rings of Hell that had cost Bravo company eleven men in a series of ambushes, but because Hardesty had listened to us, none of the bagged bodies were from second or third platoons and we captured two prisoners.
When Sgts Springer, Bates, and I told Hardesty what had happened to another company in that same area the month before he'd arrived as our XO, Hardesty had been visibly appalled. We'd then made and presented our own plans for keeping up with the herd during the sweep.
We'd been issued a route and a time limit. The route would have been a good one if it hadn't been for two things; it had been drawn by office pogues whose vision had been obscured by somebody's higher-ranking ass, and the VC had moved a helluva lot of extra troops in to the valley.
"Screw that," said Bates. "Some jerk's got us marching straight down the middle of the valley. Maybe his mama raised an idiot, but mine didn't."
Half a dozen agreements came from other NCO's at the table, myself included.
Hardesty grinned and said, "Well, then, let's have your learned suggestions, gentlemen. You know the goal, the destination, and the time limit. Give me your alternatives."
Springer said, "We'll set a few little traps of our own tonight and listen to the music when Chuckie finds 'em. 2nd and 3rd platoons'll be able to hold a parade through there tomorrow."
"Roger that, LT," said Bates, grinning hugely.
"It'll be a real cautious parade," I said, "But he's right, LT. I'll rig the area tonight."
With a narrow gaze, Hardesty looked at me and asked, "That's a good half a mile or so of rigging at each end of the valley. How many men will you need?"
"A couple of guys can help me haul stuff out there this afternoon. We'll set things up tonight and be back before dawn to mark the maps."
On the verge of an automatic refusal, Hardesty started to say something, but Springer interrupted.
"LT, you only got six months here to worry about. We all got about that many here already and too damned many still to go, so you know we won't be makin' any stupid suggestions." Thumbing at me, he said, "Let us go out there and rig that valley. You know we've done stuff like this before and Charlie'll suffer big time, sir."
Hardesty studied Springer's face for a moment, then looked at Bates, who gave him a slow, wide grin and looked at me.
After a moment Hardesty dubiously said to me, "That's still a lot of ground to cover."
"So we'll hurry a little."
Chewing his lip for a moment, Hardesty finally sighed and said, "Oh, hell. Yeah. Right. Okay. Sure. Pull what you think you'll need and go do it."
I nodded and turned to Springer and Bates.
"You guys busy this evening?"
"My date canceled," said Springer. "So I was gonna do my hair, but..."
He let his sentence trail off and Bates snorted a laugh.
"Sure, Sarge. I'd like to sleep late tomorrow. I'm in."
Two hours later our deuce and a half truck stopped as if it had a problem and we all got out to pretend to check the left rear tires. The VC were most dangerous at night; during the day the road saw fairly heavy traffic. Three GI's bitching loudly over a flat tire or a dead vehicle wasn't an unusual sight.
Just in case a VC had us in his sights, I hauled out the PRC-25 and radioed in our first stop. That reminded any VC watchers that we could call an air strike on the whole damned hillside if they plinked at us.
Concealed between the truck and heavy brush on the side of the road, Bates and I quickly dug a shallow hole and buried two cases of claymore mines as Springer changed the tire. When we got moving again, Bates goosed the engine sharply a few times and turned off the ignition. The truck backfired and jerked to a halt.
We got out to look under the hood and fake a fix, then got moving again. Just before we reached the other end of the valley, Bates killed the engine again and we coasted to a stop on the side of the road. Swearing loudly this time and pounding on the truck, we radioed in and pretended to mess with things under the hood again.
Another two cases of mines were buried as Bates faked another repair, then we got underway again. In the village we did some trading and I patched up a kid's foot injury and popped him with a tetanus shot, then we headed back to base in first and second gears as if we still had some kind of problem. That gave us time to look for prints made by sandals or bare feet around our cache points, but there were none.
Just after dark we moved out on foot and dug up our first cache of mines about an hour later.
"Back in a while," I said, handing my M-16 to Bates and taking four grenades. "Remember, the number is fifteen."
"Fifteen," repeated Springer.
When I looked at Bates, he said, "Yeah, got it. Fifteen."
Picking up six claymores and a roll of wire, I stepped well into the brush and ghosted. At a crossing of a faint trails I anchored the first two mines to tree limbs so they faced downward to cover two directions, then strung the wires about ten feet away on each trail.
As I was placing two more two mines further along the other branch of the trail to catch any survivors, I felt people not far away. After setting the mines, I investigated and found two VC freshly dug in for a night of trail watching. Great. There'd be a snack nearby when my vamp virus started bitching.
When I returned to the cache for more mines, I stood behind a sizeable tree on general principles as I whispered, "Coming in."
One of the guys whispered, "Six."
"Nine."
"Close enough. Come on in."
After having a slug of coffee from my canteen, I grabbed another six mines and went back to work.
Simply remaining in ghost mode for a few hours isn't too taxing, but when you use it to levitate even short distances it eats power fast. My virus was beginning to jangle at me, so after I set up that load of mines, I flitted back up the hillside and clubbed the two VC unconscious.
Using my bayonet to slice one VC's throat, I then leaned him forward and held my canteen cup to catch a pint or so. A few minutes later, feeling refreshed and recharged, I tied and gagged the other VC, used his canteen water to rinse out my cup, and then went for more claymores.
By midnight we were out of mines at the first cache and we'd reburied the empty crates. Keeping well back from the road, we made it to the second cache just before one.
After two more flights to place mines I had to stop and feed again, so I revisited the VC position and tanked up from the remaining live one, again using my bayonet and cup. I left them looking as though they'd been quietly taken out by a special ops team.
Once the other claymores had been placed, we started back to base with just under two hours of darkness remaining. I was hungry again; I'd spent most of the night hauling hardware through the night sky and my energy reserves were low enough that I knew I wouldn't get any sleep unless I quieted my virus.
Bates was on point and we were spread out yards apart. I tossed a fist-sized chunk of dried mud high and well ahead of us. When it burst against something solid and noisily splattered the surrounding vegetation, Springer and Bates instantly merged with the brush and froze.
Going to ghost mode, I lifted and headed toward the village in the valley below, where the VC would be collecting "taxes" from the farmers, and looked for VC standing watch near the edge of the village.
Bingo. A single aura, squatting in concealment where he could stop anyone from coming or going or raise an alarm.
An 'accident' seemed appropriate. No need to let the VC know that anyone in particular had killed the guard; they might think a villager had done it. I clobbered the guard and dragged him to where someone had been splitting logs nearby.
After pulling up a large, sharp sliver on a log, I jammed the guard's chest onto the sliver, then lifted him off it.
When my canteen cup was full I put the guard back on the sliver, then lifted and headed back toward Springer and Bates, sipping as I flew. After rinsing the cup, I put it away and zeroed in on their auras in the jungle below.
They'd moved further toward the mudball disturbance, carefully and quietly picking their way along the sides of a faint trail. I dropped down near where the mudball had landed and whispered, "Eight."
"Seven," whispered Bates. "No contact?"
"Nothing here. All clear."
"How the hell did you get ahead of us?"
"Skill. Luck. Superior woodsmanship. Stuff like that."
"Uh, huh. Sometimes I think you're some kind of goddamn spook."
"Well, thank you, kind sir. I'd say you do all right out here, too."
Springer joined us and looked around, then started moving again without a word. He was like that, sometimes even around the base. No banter, all business.
When we got back to camp, I marked the mine locations on two maps and left them with the NCOIC, then hit the sack. The base was almost empty when I woke around one and braved the broiling sun for a trip to the mess tent for some coffee. Cookie saw me coming and tossed me a cup.
"Heard what you guys did last night," he said. "We've been hearing explosions out that way all morning, too. Should be an interesting day for all concerned."
Nodding as I tapped the coffee urn, I said, "Yup. Got anything left of lunch, or did you send everything out to the unit?"
"I saved some of the good stuff just for you guys. Check the fridge."
"The good stuff, huh? Thanks. Have Springer and Bates shown up yet?"
"Springer did, maybe an hour ago. He went to watch the show, I think."
After filling a tray with cold cuts and potato salad, I headed for a table. A distant popping sound made Cookie smile slightly and say, "Sounds like you guys got another one, Sarge. That was number ten or eleven, I think."
"We set out four cases of claymores last night, Cookie. Charlie won't be having a good day today."
"No damned doubt. Well, back to work for me." He headed behind the serving line with a steam tray and tossed, "Yell if you want anything," over his shoulder.
After lunch I went back to the shade of my bunker and stretched out to read a while. There was no point in wondering how the sweep was going, so I didn't. Bates dropped by for a few minutes, then Springer. When I didn't show much interest in the sweep, they went to the commo bunker to listen in on radio traffic.
Don't get me wrong, people. My unit was out there and I wished them the best possible luck, of course, but I'm not one to worry about things I can't control. I'd done what I could to safeguard their valley trip; now it was all up to them.
"Some kind of a goddamn spook," Bates had said of me. Little did he know.
In two months of being a vampire I'd learned how to mask my presence to all but other vampires and uninfected sensitives and how to flare my aura in ghost mode and levitate.
That little talent still puzzles the hell out of me; nobody seems to have more than a pet theory about how it works and I'll be absolutely damned if I can figure out how my virus manages that trick.
Comfortable travel by levitation -- for me, anyway -- seems to range just under three hundred and fifty miles per pint, and if I don't tipple along the way, my virus starts jangling my nerves and demanding a donation.
If I don't feed it by three-fifty or so, the jangling becomes a pretty damned nerve-wracking clamor, complete with a headache and a rapidly-growing hunger will continue to worsen in transit. Downing even a few ounces of blood has the almost immediate effect of quelling the virus.
According to my mentor, Major Anna Corinth, that scarlet snack can come from any kind of mammal big enough to supply a pint or so, but I prefer to look for enemy troops. There's no shortage of VC, after all, and every one of them that I eliminate with my bayonet starts another fearful rumor about the phenomenal abilities of the US recondo teams.
For a while after my conversion, a general sense of disbelief about what had happened to me had been a big part of my daily state of mind. Until Major Corinth and Captain Hartley had entered my life I hadn't believed in vampires; not even a little bit. But after a weekend with those ladies, I believed. Oh, yes, indeed.
Corinth's "join us or die" sales pitch hadn't particularly impressed me when she'd made it. She hadn't yet convinced me that she wasn't simply a nutcase fan of vampire movies, but when I'd tried to leave, her speed and strength in capturing me had been phenomenal.
Then she'd opened my wrist with an Xacto knife and the ladies had taken turns feeding on my blood. By the end of their snacking, their vampire virus had taken hold in me and sealed the wound almost without a trace.
After an evening of sensual partying with them I'd gone back to my BEQ room and slept like the dead -- pun intended, of course -- and then wakened on Saturday wondering if it had all been a dream.
Nope. No dream. The following afternoon Corinth had rammed a serrated steak knife into my chest in order to hurry the virus's renovation of me. Her method apparently worked; I healed completely in about fifteen minutes.
By late that evening I was able to see auras and shove a parked jeep sideways, albeit by using both hands and some effort. Marian Hartley had glanced around, shoved the jeep back using only one hand, then stuck her tongue out at me and laughed.
Corinth, Anna. Major, US Army. A tall, red-headed, green-eyed, gorgeous head nurse who'd seemed scary enough with only her rank and her commanding attitude. I discovered that she didn't simply run ward seven; she ruled it.
Hartley, Marian. Captain, US Army. A brunette nurse who looks as if she might once have been a cheerleader, who giggles and laughs easily, and who had seemed truly upset about having to convert me by force in Corinth's office.
When they'd taken me to Hartley's BOQ room afterward for some spiced rum and a quiet orgy, I'd readily demonstrated my forgiveness, of course.
Although I'd begun to wonder about the reality of it all, I damned sure hadn't let it worry me much when faced with what seemed like miles of fine female flesh to explore.
There were two more explosions in the distance as I finished my lunch.
Cookie grinned at me and cupped a hand to his ear as if listening to distant music, then softly sang, "The hills are alive..."
I grinned back and cleaned my tray, then refilled my coffee and headed to the commo bunker, where Springer and Bates were sitting on top of the bunker's south wall.
Bates waved briefly at me and Springer nodded, then both turned back to watch the hillsides, passing a pair of binoculars back and forth and occasionally pointing at various spots.
Without binoculars I couldn't see much out there, so I went inside the commo bunker. Radio traffic was as confusing as usual for such operations. The commo guy glanced up as I entered the bunker and walked up to Captain Drake.
"How goes the war, Cap?"
Drake shrugged and glanced down at his watch.
"We're only down two men in... almost seven hours. Not bad, really. Both men were wounded. One bad, one not so bad. Could have been a helluva lot worse. Delta company lost nine men before noon on the other side."
He turned to look at me and said, "Lt. Hardesty told me why you were sleeping in this morning. You guys did a great job last night, Sarge. A really great job. Pass it on for me, will you?"
There was a muffled thump on the roof and Bates's head poked down in front of the view slit.
He grinned and said, "Thanks, Captain," then he pulled himself back up as Springer yelled, "Yeah! Thanks, Cap!"
I borrowed binoculars to have a look at the sweep. As I watched four of our guys check out an area, there was an explosion somewhat up the slope from them and they dropped flat. After a few seconds they got up and went to check it out. They returned dragging two VC down to the trail.
"It's been like that all day," said Drake. "Must be a truckload of dead VC out there. We don't have any firm numbers yet, though."
"Doesn't matter," I said. "We'll never win this war this way. They'll have the same number of Chucks out there by Monday, if not sooner."
The radioman -- who'd only been with us about two weeks -- looked at me as if I'd uttered heresy, then glanced at Drake.
Drake said nothing and continued watching the valley for some moments before saying, "Yeah, I know."
After a few minutes the radio noise got to me and I left the commo bunker to return to my own bunker for some reading. Glancing under my bunk, I saw that I was more than halfway through the two dozen books I'd picked up at the hospital BX. It was almost time to make another trip.
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