Trident Force Read Online Free Page B

anything.
    A voice squawked out of the radio clipped to Mike’s belt. The same voice emerged at the same time from the radio clipped to the fourth defender, who was thereby marked as the opposition’s leader. Mike and the other leader exchanged glances then both looked up in the sky to where the monitor drone was now slow-flying directly overhead. “The attacking force is scored with having overrun the defending force and suffering no casualties,” announced the stereophonic voice of the exercise mediator, who had been spying on the whole drill from above. “The attacking force is reminded that it has less than two hours remaining to reach and take the objective.”
    â€œDamn!” mumbled the defense leader. He then shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œGood work,” said Mike to his team. “Even you, Kudloe. Up to a point. Now let’s hit the road. We don’t have much time. And Kudloe, your performance for the rest of the day will determine whether I transfer you back to a regular SEAL unit or to storekeepers school or to the brig.”
    He looked up at the blazing sun, took a deep breath of the rich, hot, organic air—it tasted of salt and long-dead seafood and sun-baked salt hay—and gritted his teeth. How many more defenders lay ahead? he wondered. Were they all concentrated in the objective or had they established other little outposts on other hummocks? How many roving patrols did they have out?
    They never told you how big the other side was. That was supposed to be part of the fun.
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    Ramon Fuentes, Captain, United States Marine Corps, tried hard to convince himself that he felt left out; that he’d rather be on the firing line with the rest of the Force than where he was, stuck inside the Force’s drab, windowless, concrete block facility, staring at a computer, surrounded by the smell of the wax on the floor tiles and waiting for something to happen. He tried, but he couldn’t do it.
    He could crawl through mud, fire an M-16—or anything else—and suffer the god damned horseflies as well as any man—or woman. Better, in fact. But the pleasures of the field—whether it be Paris Island, Quantico or Little Creek—couldn’t possibly compare with the pleasure of having a leisurely family lunch with your wife and daughter. Each of whom had taken time out of her busy day to join him for an hour or two in the admittedly under-decorated, but well air-conditioned and bug-free conference room.
    Sandy and little Jamie had left, but the glow continued as he stared at the snippets of news rolling down the computer monitor. They were much like newspaper headlines, except they were directed at a very select, need-to-know audience.
    The phone rang. “SecResGruTwo, Captain Fuentes speaking, sir.”
    â€œRay, this is Alan. Give me Mike,” said the deputy secretary of defense who served as liaison between SECDEF, himself and the Force.
    â€œHe’s out at the firing range with the rest of the team.”
    â€œI have to talk to him.”
    â€œIs this an emergency? I can alert him, have him break off the exercise.”
    â€œNo. Not yet. Maybe not at all. Will he be coming back to the office today?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHave him call me then.”
    â€œAye, aye.”
    Ray Fuentes didn’t really trust Alan Parker. He’d seen the bureaucrat change his story one too many times in order to protect his own ample ass. To be on the safe side, the marine officer relayed the message verbatim to the firing range, for delivery to Chambers as soon as possible. Half an hour later the firing range reported back that the message had been delivered and that Captain Chambers was going to take it at face value and return the call when he got back to his office.
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    Fuentes was struggling halfheartedly with some paperwork when the security lock clicked and the outside door opened. In, out of the dark, marched Mike