Section 8 Read Free

his torso with Velcro straps. It was lightweight but still added noticeably to his bulk. On top of that went a combat harness festooned with holders for extra magazines for the submachine guns, grenades, FM radio, and knife. He wrapped the thin wire for the radio around the vest, placed the earplug in his left ear, and strapped the mike around his throat.

Vaughn slid an automatic pistol into a holster strapped on the outside of his left thigh. Two spare magazines for the pistol went on either side of the holster. Two more spare magazines were strapped around his right thigh in a specially designed holster. He then pulled hard composite armor guards up to just below his elbow, protecting his forearms from elbow to wrist, followed by thin green Nomex flight gloves. Whether handling hot weapons, forcing his way through thick jungle, or simply for protection against falling, he had long ago learned to cover the skin on his hands.

For the final piece of weaponry, he used a loose piece of Velcro on his combat vest to secure a set of brass knuckles that had been spray-painted flat black to his left side.

"You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can't take Boston out of the boy," Jenkins commented.

"South Boston," Vaughn corrected his team sergeant. Jenkins had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin and always found his wife's and brother-in-law's stories of big city life strange. As strange as Vaughn found Jenkins's stories of farm life.

"If you got to use those," Jenkins said, pointing at the brass knuckles, "you're in some deep shit."

"That's the idea." Vaughn looked over at him. "You carry that pig sticker everywhere," he said, referring to the machete Jenkins had just finished securing behind his right shoulder, the handle sticking up for easy access.

"It's for firewood," Jenkins replied.

"Yeah, right."

Finally came a black Kevlar helmet, not the same distinctive shape the rest of the United States Army wore, but simply a semiround pot with a bracket bolted to the front. Out of a plastic case, Vaughn removed a set of night vision goggles and latched them onto the bracket, leaving the goggles in the up and off position so they wouldn't obscure his vision. The amount of gear he wore limited his exposed flesh to a small patch between his eyebrows and chin, which was already covered with dark green camouflage paste. The entire effect was greatly dehumanizing, making the men seem like machines, not flesh and blood.

A third, similarly dressed figure walked up in the dimming light. "Sergeant Major, don't you think your wife knows how short you really are?"

"Shut up," Jenkins growled, but without anger. The same jokes now for months—it was almost a ritual. One that Vaughn wished would end.

Several other men loomed up, all equipped the same way, except for two who carried heavier Squad Automatic Weapon machine guns. Ten men. Vaughn's team. Across the field, in a long tin building, was the platoon of twenty-five Filipino commandos who were to accompany them on this raid. And in between, squatting on the field like man-made bugs, were five UH-1 Iroquois transport helicopters with Philippine army markings. Like wraiths in the darkness, the pilots and crew chiefs of the aircraft were scurrying around them, doing last minute flight checks.

Vaughn looked at his watch. "Time. Get our allies," he ordered one of his men, who took off at a jog toward the barracks. He turned to another. "Got the designator?"

The man answered by holding out a rucksack. "It's set for the right freq."

Vaughn took the backpack, slid one of the straps over one shoulder and the MP-5 over the other. "To your birds." He and Jenkins headed toward the lead helicopter while the others split up. The sound of excited Filipino voices now echoed across the field as the platoon of commandos also headed toward the choppers.

Jenkins suddenly froze, putting an arm out and halting Vaughn. With one smooth movement, Jenkins's right arm looped up over his shoulder, grasped