GK Fic: Mr Frosty Part II
~~~
Warehouse, Outskirts of Boston, MA
Five hours later, the sun was up and it was a new day for most people. Not for them. As Brad pulled apart his M4, he wondered how badly he would damage the bolt assembly if he whipped it at Ray's head.
"I don't want, anybody else. When I think about you, I touch myself, ahhhh ahhhhh..." Ray's disembodied voice crooned from under the truck.
Fortunately for Ray, Walt tipped the odds in his favor by interrupting.
"What happened, Brad?" Walt asked depositing his bag at the side of the truck and running his fingers over the bullet holes that now decorated the side of Mr. Frosty. They were in their warehouse-a converted furniture distribution center that served as their official headquarters for the operation. Everyone was making the necessary repairs to the fleet and regrouping.
"Fifty-cal jammed," Brad said in a clipped tone. He was getting a little tired of repeating himself.
Walt put his hands up in defense. "Don't look at me like that. I showed you the fucking shit Encino Man gave us. I don't know what backward, third-world country he acquired that LSA from, but half of it was congealed and the rest just dripped everywhere. It was totally separated."
"Where the fuck have you been, anyway?" Brad asked, then shrugged and sighed. He didn't need to be yelling at Walt.
Walt dropped to the floor beside him. "Casey Kasem tasked us with tracking down all the customers from the Laundromat today."
Brad's jaw dropped. "Seriously?"
"Yup. We talked to some guys renting a pad three blocks from the park. We talked to five families, three old ladies, a few single moms, a drunk, two hookers and a homeless man who likes to visit the Laundromat to watch the driers spin when he's bored. None of them remember seeing X-Ray before."
"Probably because he used the side entrance and dealt directly with the owners?"
Walt leaned against Mr. Frosty. "Probably. Either way, it was fun. We should do it again some time."
Trombley came over. "Aw. You guys got to fucking shoot people? Why don't I ever get to come along on something fun?"
Ray popped out from under the truck with a disgusted look on his face. "Aw, Trombley man, you smell like ass."
"I can't help it, Person. The kids started throwing garbage at me again."
"Well maybe if you didn't look at them like a psycho dog killer, they wouldn't be all over your ass-"
"Children," Brad said, interrupting the argument as he spotted Schwetje walking between vehicles. Schwetje had his head buried in a clipboard, and banged into Two-Two's side-view mirror. Griego followed close behind like a dog walking with his master. Enough was enough. Brad jumped up and went after him. "Sir!"
Schwetje looked up from his papers and gave Brad a small smile. "Hey, Brad. Good job capturing that guy. I'm just working on the next stage of the plan for you guys and Group Three."
"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Everyone in Group Two needs meals, most of us haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. Also, I've gone over to the supply guys; we need a new piston rod for the front-right suspension but they need your okay to order one."
Espera joined them with a list of requests as well. "Sir. And Two-One Bravo needs more batteries for our PEC-twos and thermals."
Now that Schwetje was cornered, other team leaders started to come towards him as well. Patrick and Lovell ran up waving papers full of supply and administration requests.
Schwetje held up his hand to stop them. "Okay, okay. I know it's been tough without having someone you guys can go to directly, but I can't deal with all these little things right now. Planning for this mission is crucial. You guys will just have to make do with what you've got right now. Once this is done, I'll see about getting what you need."
"Well, what about Greigo," Brad pointed out. "He's in charge of supplies, isn't he? Can't he get this for us instead of sending my men on a wild goose chase?"
Greigo curled his lip in disdain. "I'm in charge of procurement, Colbert. Not inventory. And I was taking the initiative. Something you might want to think of doing sometime."
"And where the fuck did you procure that LSA from then? It looked like it expired ten years ago."
Greigo turned and walked away in a huff, leaving Brad standing there with the rest of the team leaders. They cast a look at one another and then returned back to their spots, empty handed.
Brad went over to Mr. Frosty and sat down with a thud. Walt was busy looking over the fifty-cal and Ray had finally finished his assessment. "We're actually pretty lucky, Brad. I think all we need is a new radiator and the front-right suspension is gone, as I mentioned before, but other than that and some body work, the truck is salvageable. Are you still thinking of scrapping her?"
Brad weighed the options. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but his gut told him Fick wouldn't turn them in. The other option would take them out of the game completely. He shook his head. "It'll take too long to build up a new vehicle. If we have to fix the body work, we'll give her a new paint job while we're at it. How long do you think it will take to get her up and running?"
Ray shrugged. "Twelve hours. We can cut that down to three if you get me some help and parts from supply."
With a nod Brad called out for Trombley, waking him from the nap he'd started to take on the floor. "Trombley. Get up and help Ray. He can show you what to do."
Ray rolled his eyes. "I said help, Brad."
"And swap the fifty-cal out for the Mark-19."
"I doubt it'll jam any less," Walt replied.
Brad nodded. "I know, but Poke's gonna take it. Gabe's got more experience with it, maybe he can make it sing."
Prioritizing everything that had to happen now, Brad made sure his guys were set up in their tasks before going off to find Rudy. If Ray needed parts, he would need Rudy's help to bribe the supply guys.
~~~
"Any chance you can get us a radiator in the next few hours," Brad said twenty minutes later, casually leaning on some crates and dangling an espresso in front of Joe's face.
Drool was starting to pool out of the corner of the supply guy's lips. "Sure, Brad. I think I can scavenge one from somewhere. No problem."
Brad passed Joe the drink, which he practically snatched from Brad's hands. After Joe took a few sips, he unrolled his eyes from the back of his head. Joe was about to run away, nursing his drink when he stopped and reached for a small box sitting off to the side. "Oh, I almost forgot, Brad. Here's the box of 7/16" x 20 lug nuts and wheel locks you requested."
He handed the box to Brad and was off before Brad could say anything. Looking down, Brad turned the box over with a sigh. And he'd actually been hopeful about getting that radiator-hopeful before he remembered the level of competency he was dealing with. There was a reason why they called him Slow Joe Crow.
"Here," Brad said, tossing the box of lug nuts to Ray. "Add it to our barter pile. Someone in this unit wants it, I'm sure."
Ray rolled his eyes. "Oh great. More ballast. Just what we need. You know, I left the Marines because I was promised more freedom, improved efficiency, better equipment and additional money. But I forgot the guy making the promises was an ex-officer. The irony...it burns."
The grinder emitted a high-pitched screech as Trombley started it up, effectively bringing an end to Ray's mumblings. Brad dropped back down on the milk crate he'd been using as a stool and finished reassembling his M4.
Kocher sat down beside him and offered him a box of donuts.
"Where'd you get these?" Brad's stomach growled loudly. Normally he avoided junk food, but right now, his body needed calories more than nutrition.
Eric pointed to Patrick and Reyes. "You know how Patrick likes to fit the cop stereotype. Besides, Reyes was complaining about the donuts spoiling his figure so I did the honorable thing."
Brad laughed and helped himself to one, then handed the box the Walt with a gesture for him to pass it on to Ray and Trombley.
"The stupidity surrounding this unit amazes me. At least back in Recon we had our MREs," Eric said gesturing to the chaos around them.
"Sure, when whole supply trucks weren't being left abandoned by the side of the road."
Eric tilted his head at that. "But I don't get why it's that hard here. Why doesn't Encino Man just let us go to drive-thrus or stop at a local quick-mart? There's one five minutes from here. He trusts us to blend in with the civilians while we're pursing a target, but not to get some fucking food?"
Brad found his water bottle and took a chug trying to swallow past the dough stuck in his throat. His eyes rested on Ray with his legs sticking out of the bottom of the truck again and thought back to the radiator.
"God, we need someone in charge around here who knows their dick from their asshole," Brad said finally. He was sorely tempted to steal the radiator from Schwetje's vehicle, especially if it meant leaving him stranded here. It would only improve their probable success rate for the mission. "I'd settle for a semi-competent platoon leader just so I didn't have to deal with fucking Encino Man anymore."
Eric shook his head. "You mean group leader."
"Group leader, whatever," Brad spit a mouthful of water onto the ground, trying to wash the coating of sugar off his teeth. "Just because Godfather had his fucking thesaurus out one day, doesn't change the fact that almost all of us are Marines, mostly from Recon and that this unit is run like any other military operation. Just because we're so far up the oversight committee's ass doesn't change any of that. Then you get idiots like Schwetje and Greigo, transferring in from Special Activities Division who think they're hot shit because they're in charge and yet have never seen combat operations because their only experience is in political bullshit. Having us report directly to Schwetje is taxing that man's already limited brain capacity. If Godfather wants to run us like a military unit, he'd better pony up and find someone to fill the hole..."
"Sorry to interrupt," said a raspy voice behind Brad that didn't sound sorry at all. Brad snapped his mouth shut and turned around to see Godfather standing behind him. It was really turning into one of those days.
Brad quickly swallowed the last of his words as he felt a flush cross his cheeks. He wasn't sure how much Godfather had heard.
Godfather carried on, letting Brad off the hook. "I understand Bravo has been having some difficulties these past few months and Godfather has been searching for someone to come in and help alleviate your concerns. Brad, I believe you know Nathaniel Fick?"
Brad didn't understand. Of course he knew Nathaniel Fick. That was how today's clusterfuck had started. Brad refrained from using those exact words and just went with a tight grin. "Yes sir. But-"
At that second, Dave McGraw wound his way past a truck and Two-Two's cruiser and came out with Fick in tow.
Brad's jaw dropped.
"There you are, sir!" McGraw bounded up to Godfather, literally dragging Fick behind him. "I was showing our new man around these outstanding facilities you've arranged for our current mission and giving him a run down of the operation. Everyone will be so thrilled to have a fresh face around here, and I can already tell we are going to get along great. We're practically brothers already."
He slapped Fick on the shoulder and gave him a tight, one-armed hug, probably not realizing that this was the same man he'd almost decked in the back of Mr. Frosty less than ten hours ago. Casually, people started to turn around to check out the new scene and as they did, the chatter died down until almost all the eyes were upon them. McGraw carried on unaware, trying to make Fick his new best friend.
Fick, for his part, managed to side-step any further hugs, arm-slaps, and hip-checks while trying to take it all in. Eventually his gaze settled on Brad's.
"Godfather thinks you did an outstanding securing the two captives yesterday," Godfather continued on, speaking louder for everyone's benefit. "They have provided us with great insight into the workings of the Leon cartel. Senior management will be passing their orders on to you shortly, but before we step off, I wanted to bring Bravo-Two something special. I know you men have been working without a leader to guide you and handle your day-to-day affairs, and you have managed well. But it's been brought to my attention, that in order for us to function like a well-oiled machine, you need someone to be your group leader. Well, Godfather has found that someone for you tonight."
Brad's eyes were glued on Fick's. Godfather had found someone to be the new group leader?
No fucking way.
"I understand some of you already met Nathaniel yesterday afternoon; he's taken a very interesting route to join us here, but make no mistake about it. We are lucky to have him on board. You'll be pleased to know he hails from Recon as well and General Mattis can't say shit about it, this time."
Quiet laughter floated around the room.
"I'll be turning him over to you, Brad, to get him up to speed on the intricacies of Bravo-Two. As for you all, be prepared to move out soon. That's it."
Godfather gave them all a nod and left. Out of the corner of his eyes, Brad could see everyone else, glued to their spots, staring at Nate. Whispering started, filling people in on any gossip they might have missed.
McGraw tried to lead Fick away. "So, Nate, why don't I finish showing you around-"
"Thanks, Dave," Nate said, with his eyes still meeting Brad's. "But I know you must be busy making sure everyone in Bravo-Three is ready. I'd better stay here and let Brad fill me in on my group. I understand we're on a tight schedule today."
McGraw hesitated, obviously torn between doing his job and going to check on his group or staying with Nate. Eventually, he wandered away but only after multiple promises to return later.
"What are you doing here?" Brad asked after McGraw had left and speaking had become inevitable.
Nate reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small container, handing it to Brad. "I heard you needed this."
Brad turned it over. It was a can of LSA manufactured this decade. Brad looked back up at him, narrowing his eyes. He had no fucking idea what it meant, no fucking idea why Fick had come back, let alone how he'd managed to get hired by Godfather.
"I may be easy, but I'm not cheap," Brad said, holding the can of LSA toward him. "I thought you were trying to get away from us."
Nate shrugged and started making his way over to Mr. Frosty, leaving Brad holding the LSA.
"The truck's not looking too bad, considering," Nate said when Brad finally reached his side. Ray poked his head out from under the hood and dropped his wrench when he saw Nate.
"Well fuck me gently with a rusty chainsaw. What the fuck are you doing here, Homes?" Ray said, coming over while wiping grease off his hands and onto his shirt. Then he offered one of his hands to Nate.
Nate shook his hand and offered him a smile. "When I got home, I made some calls. Found out that you work for Godfather. I remember hearing about Godfather when I got back from Afghanistan-how he stole all the best men from Recon. It's one of the reasons I was recruited into Recon."
"How about them mouse ears," Ray said shaking his head. "It is a fucking small world after all."
Brad tossed the LSA to Walt as he approached and watched the smile spread on his face when he realized what it was.
"Where'd you get this?" Walt asked in disbelief.
Brad hooked a thumb in Nate's direction who was still laughing and joking with Ray. "Hostage by day, boy-wonder by night," Brad said with a hint of bitterness. He hadn't missed the fact that Nate had ignored his question and then answered Ray's without hesitation. "Be careful. I think they're going to break out in song any minute now."
After Walt left with the LSA, Brad stood there, watching Fick and Ray. An uneasy feeling started to settle in his stomach. Fick had the perfect record-he was an ex-Recon officer-exactly what Bravo-Two needed. As much as Ray believed in his lucky, disgusting, plague-inducing, putrid lucky socks which Brad routinely banished from the truck, Brad didn't believe in luck. People made their own luck. He also didn't believe in coincidences.
Coincidences usually meant someone was up to something.
Just as Brad was making a mental list of people he could call, Poke sidled up next to him. "It's a small fucking world, dawg," Poke said with a slow smile.
Brad arched his eyebrow. "Not you too, Poke."
Poke looked at him in confusion. "I'm talking about Fick. I didn't realize it was that Fick you had kidnapped. We were both in Bravo Company in First Battalion together-different platoons, but still. Shit, man. I sat across from him on our flight into Pakistan."
"Really?"
Poke nodded. "Hey! How'd you get the lug nuts and wheel locks? I put a request in for them weeks ago," Poke said, jumping off topic as he saw the box sitting on a pile of Ray's gear.
Brad waved them at him. "Take them, they're yours. Now what can you tell me about Fick."
Poke grabbed the box and started checking out the parts. "He's smart and knows his shit. He even seemed to care about I had to say. Not many officers listen to the opinions of a lowly Mexican. His platoon liked him, too. I can't believe he's working for us now. Maybe our luck is finally turning around."
"Maybe," Brad said, grinding his teeth at the mention of luck. "Any idea why he got out?"
Poke shrugged, closed the box and looked back up at Brad. "I don't know dawg. I know he had some personal shit going down when we got back from Afghanistan. He had to take leave for a few weeks. But then Godfather came around recruiting and I took the job. I left before he came back."
Brad was left alone in his thoughts after Poke ran off to enjoy the lug nuts. The trouble with intel of any kind was that it often raised more questions than it answered.
~~~
"...So this is our big break. Our interrogation of X-Ray confirmed that the annual meeting between the three Leon brothers is happening, tonight in fact, just off the coast of Jersey," Schwetje said. Greigo started handing out packages of maps and orders which Brad instantly reached for. Greigo smirked and handed the papers to Nate instead.
Nate instantly passed them on to Brad, making the smirk on Greigo's face disappear as quickly as it had appeared.
"We've been waiting a long time for this," Schwetje continued, "so I want to go over the crucial details to make sure there are no screw ups. The goal is to make it there as quickly as possible so we can recon the area."
A murmur of cheers went up around the room and even Brad couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of finally getting these bastards and maybe, finally, putting this op behind them.
Schwetje put a map on the overhead projector and indicated the route they were to take to the port. "Once we're in the downtown area, make sure you take Eden Street because it's the only direct street going west toward the port. All the other streets are one ways..."
The murmurs changed to whispers of confusion as team leaders and drivers tried to get clarification. Looking down at the map, Brad saw that the actual direction they needed to travel was east. When someone pointed this out, Schwetje flipped the overhead upside down, then over, then settled it back they way he'd had it originally, but instead of looking at it from above, he turned around and looked at the screen. Eventually he conceded that yes, they needed to go east, not west on Eden Street.
Brad glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Nate sitting next to him. Nate's jaw was clenched tightly. Brad leaned over and whispered, "In case you were wondering, this is who we call Encino Man."
Nate hushed him, obviously lost in thought. Then he leaned toward Brad, "It'll take us at least six hours to get there. That's not enough time to set-up a command station, recon the area, get the necessary boats and prepare an assault."
"Especially when half the company is going to get lost following his directions."
Nate pulled a small notebook and started scribbling notes. When Schwetje was done, they went back to Mr. Frosty.
Judging by the hundred-some-odd parts scattered on the floor in their area, Brad didn't think Ray's repairs were going too well.
"Stupid-motherfucking-cheap-ass-built-in-fucking-China-piece-of-shit..."
"What the fuck, Ray?"
Ray popped his head out of the hood, grease smeared on his face and arms. Trombley and Hasser were both working on the back end and they exchanged looks. Ray cursed while ripping a hose out and added it to the collection on the ground. "Bad news, Brad. I thought the truck was overheating because of the radiator problems, but we have a much bigger issue. Cracked engine block."
Brad swore. For once there was no trace of humor on Ray's face. "What do you need?"
"A new engine."
"A new engine?" Brad stared at all the parts. They had an hour before they were supposed to be oscar mike and he didn't think he was going to get a radiator in that time, let alone an engine. He turned to Nate. "Know anywhere we can get a new engine?"
Nate shook his head. "LSA was one thing. I can't work miracles. Isn't there another vehicle you can use? Even if it's not fancy, it's better than nothing."
Ray unlocked a bracket and tossed it on the floor as well. "If we ditch Mr. Frosty, we'll be out of the game. We won't have comms, computers, nothing. We'll be sitting there with our thumbs up our asses, watching everyone else get the bad guys. It fucking figures. We've been on this op for what? Two years? And now we're out?" Ray threw some stray wires out.
"Ray, stop ripping stuff out of the truck!" Brad yelled as he got hit with the wire cutters. "It isn't helping."
"Neither is you standing there watching. I figure if I cut some holes in the bottom we can make like Fred-fucking-Flinstone and Barney. Fucking yabba dabba do."
Nate poked around the debris scattered on the floor. "If you had a new engine, how long would it take you to fix her up?"
Ray just looked at him.
"No, really."
"Fine," Ray said, rolling his eyes. "If a new engine were to just magically show up and I had some decent help, and the proper tools, maybe four hours. Other tasks could happen concurrently and anything else could be fixed on the road, I suppose."
"What if it wasn't the right engine..." Nate trailed off.
Ray eyed him suspiciously. "I don't know. Depends on how different..."
Nate stood up and caught Brad's eye. Brad raised his eyebrow. He had no idea what Nate was thinking.
"Didn't you guys capture a Mustang yesterday?" Nate asked.
Brad nodded slowly. "Yes, but..."
The sound of a wrench hitting the floor was followed immediately by Ray engulfing Nate in a tackle-hug.
"Oh God! You're gonna let us pillage Encino Man's new Mustang? You're fucking awesome, man! Can I marry you now, please?"
"Ray," Brad said with exasperation.
Ray reluctantly let Nate out of his hold. "Whoops, sorry, dude. I forgot you had dibs."
Brad felt a small, involuntary flush creep across his face. "Ray," he said dangerously, but Ray was already heading gleefully back to the truck. He risked a glance again at Nate, but Nate was looking rather amused by the whole thing.
"Is it even possible?" Brad asked him.
Nate shrugged. "Ask, Ray."
But Ray was already singing "Mustang Sally" and ripping more things out from under the hood. Brad scowled. Fick seemed to have no trouble answering Ray's questions, but every time Brad asked him something, he got the runaround. Brad refused to believe for a second that he was jealous of Ray.
"Schwetje has plans for that Mustang," Brad said, not because he cared what Schwetje wanted but because he was trying to be realistic about the whole thing. He was positive there was very little bitterness in his voice. "How do you plan on letting us get our hooks into it?"
"Keep your guys working on the body and tell Ray to strip out the old engine and anything else that probably won't jive with the Mustang's parts. Let me handle Schwetje."
"This is crazy. The Mustang's engine is twice as powerful as the one we have. It'll be like trying to stick a square peg in a round hole."
Nate smiled. "They did it on Apollo 13. Besides, don't worry. The one thing we have an abundance of is duct tape."
~~~
An hour later, when the rest of Bravo Company was pulling away, Nate dragged Brad to the front entrance to watch their tail lights. Then he grabbed Brad's arm and proceeded to wave it up and down. "Wave Brad. That's Bravo leaving town."
Brad watched Nate, amused and confused, but mostly amused. Nate's eyes were shining and it was hard not to get caught up in his enthusiasm. When the last vehicle had pulled away, Nate said, "Okay Brad. Say hi to your new engine."
Two-Three pulled up in their truck, towing the red Mustang, gleaming in the sun. They rolled into the compound, backing the car up next to Mr. Frosty.
"How the fuck did you do that?" Brad asked in awe. As soon as Lovell had it in position, Manimal was out, wrench in hand, dropping it down while Ray ran over and started humping the fender.
Nate smiled mysteriously and Brad was getting prepared for another vague answer when Nate expanded. "About five minutes ago I told Schwetje I needed to drive in a separate vehicle because I couldn't hear myself think around Ray. Since there was no time, he was inclined to let me borrow his Mustang when I suggested it as a solution. Fortunately, Two-Three had already agreed to tow it as part of the convoy..."
Despite himself, Brad smiled at the sheer genius. "Not to get homoerotic about this, but I could kiss you, sir."
When the Mustang was on the ground, everyone jumped into action, and it was only then Brad noticed that Nate's hand was still on his arm. The contact lasted only another second before Nate was off, bounding into the foray as everyone swarmed the vehicle, eager for pillage like the Vandals sacking ancient Rome. The absence of pressure was notable, and that in of itself was disconcerting.
Brad let his eyes follow Nate's movements, watched as he got swallowed up by the crowd, and then moved back and forth between the truck and the Mustang, directing the flow of work naturally. He still had no fucking clue how Nate Fick had landed on his doorstep, or why he'd decided to come back and help them after he got away, but maybe for now, it didn't matter. If this whole op was a day away from completion, they would have plenty of time to figure it out later.
Somewhere around New Haven, CT
“If you think I'm sexy and you want my body, come on sugar let me know...If you really need me, just reach out and touch me...“
Ray had the window open, letting in the evening air as they raced down the interstate and was belting out tunes at the top of his lungs. They were doing at least thirty miles per hour faster than Mr. Frosty's previous top speed and making good time. In fact, the entire atmosphere in the truck was down-right energized.
Walt had taken Brad's seat up front and was singing along. Even Trombley was joining in on the chorus.
Brad forced a tight smile onto his face as he turned back to the map he'd laid out on some boxes. Most of the extraneous ice cream and dessert supplies had been left at the warehouse and Mr. Frosty was now fully loaded with ammunition, communication equipment and other supplies actually relevant to their job description. Ray's Pewter Penis had been extracted from the syrup box it had punctured, and was back in its rightful spot with all of Ray's other chachkas. The fixed overhead light gave some illumination in the back.
Brad checked his watch. If his estimates were right, they should make it in time to provide back up. Barely.
"Well, they're in a good mood," Nate said next to him.
Brad could feel Nate looking at him, but he kept his eyes firmly on the map, trying to plot the route most likely to get them to the rendezvous point in time.
"Here, Brad," Ray interrupted and Brad put down his pencil with a sigh. "This one's for you-My boyfriends back and you're gonna be in trouble, hey-la-day-la, my boyfriends back!“
Walt snickered and Brad glared at them until they both stopped. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Nate's face scrunched up in confusion and he turned to Brad for clarification. Perfect. Exactly what he needed.
"Ray likes to think he's editorializing," Brad explained. "But if that were true, he'd be entertaining us with Madonna's gay-ass song about a virgin fucking a hairy beast to express his secret, pent-up desire for bestiality."
Ray took the jibe with a snort and Trombley got all grossed out about the idea of fucking animals.
"You don't have to be an animal to fuck like an animal, Trombley," Ray said.
"You mean like doggy style?"
"No, Trombley. Not like doggy style. I'm talking about hardcore embodiment of the furry lifestyle, and rutting alongside someone who spiritually identifies as a squirrel. Now that's some fucking animalistic sex."
Brad tried really hard not to listen and went back to his map.
Unfortunately, Nate wasn't listening to it either. "So what's the problem, Brad?"
Brad had no problem. The truck was fixed, the team was back together and he had a platoon commander again. On top of all that, his new platoon commander was apparently a goddam superhero.
Nate sat back on his heels. "You seemed happy enough back at the warehouse."
Brad swallowed a grimace. It was true. He'd let his guard down because he'd been caught up in the fun of pillaging the Mustang. It had been like the first few months when he joined Godfather's operation. Excitement had hung in the air as everyone threw themselves into their new roles, determined to see how far they could push themselves and their equipment. But like before, reality had to set in eventually.
And the reality was that every time Brad looked at his new platoon commander, he felt like being less than professional. His palms got sweaty and he felt an unrelenting desire to reach over and touch him. What he would do once he touched him, Brad hadn't quite worked out yet, but throwing him on the floor and grinding down against him seemed to be where his mind was inclined to go.
So maybe there was a problem.
Nate Fick was his boss now and Brad had a job to do. An important job that couldn't afford a distraction of this kind.
"Nate," Ray called out with one hand wrapped around the radio handset, apparently on a first name basis with him now, "Godfather's on the hook for you."
Nate went forward and took the handset. "Two-Actual. Go ahead."
The truck quieted down as they all tried to listen in. Godfather's raspy voice was too quiet for Brad to hear details but it was obvious from the tone and the look on Nate's face that something was up.
"We're still two hours out, over," Nate said after a while.
There was more raspy talking on the other end.
"Yes, sir." Nate passed the handset back to Walt who hooked it back up to the consol. "Ray, you need to push her as fast as you can. We're on our own on this one. Walt, let Two-Three know that we're going to be picking up speed. The meeting is in two hours. We need to get there as soon as we can."
"What happened?" Brad asked. "The rest of Bravo should have been there by now."
Nate shook his head. "I don't know. Godfather didn't fill me in on the details. We have no time for anything. We just have to get to the yacht and secure it."
Brad whipped out his cell phone, put it on speaker and called Poke.
"Dawg, you won't believe this shit." Poke's voice along with all its incredulity floated through the cell phone.
"What happened? Where are you?"
"You know the fuck-up with the driving directions during the briefing?"
Brad felt his jaw tighten and a sinking feeling start in his stomach. He had visions of Bravo lost in some hick, back-alley town, being detained by redneck whisky tango retards interested in all their shiny toys. "Yes."
"Well, Hitman didn't want to risk anyone getting lost, so he ordered all the victors to drive in convoy the whole way there."
Brad almost laughed. Apparently the utter stupidity people were capable of still had the ability to surprise him "You're kidding."
"I couldn't make this up if I tried, dawg."
Because each of the teams had such distinct vehicles, their effectiveness in blending in with the surroundings hinged on them travelling alone. "What happened?"
Poke sighed. "Cops ran the plates on Two-Two's cruiser, then pulled the whole convoy over to find out what the hell was going on. We were in the lead and managed to slip away. We stayed in the vicinity for a while but then more cops showed up and started arresting everyone."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
"Ray..." Brad started but was interrupted by Nate shushing everyone.
"I'm assuming Godfather can't just make a call and get them released?" Nate asked the group.
Brad shook his head. "He can, but it's not like the government gave us a get out of jail free card. It'll take some time."
Nate bit his lip and then spoke back into the phone. "Poke, we're gonna need you at the rendezvous point. What's your ETA?"
"Another fifty mikes."
Nate looked at his watch. "Get there as soon as possible. You're going to have to recon the area and set up a command post. I'll call Godfather and let him know and then call you back with more info as soon as we have a plan."
When the call was disconnected, Nate turned to them and asked, "So we won't have boats. Okay, let's start tossing out ideas. What's the next best way to neutralize a yacht in open waters?"
"Well that's easy," Ray drawled out from the front, still laughing and shaking his head. "Either above or below and we ain't got no helicopters in this truck."
Nate looked over at Brad and nodded. "Then let's do it. I wouldn't normally presume to tag along, but we're short on people. Just let me know what you want me to do."
Streetlights flickered past the windows as they drove by a service station and then receded away. Already, a list of tasks that needed to be done was forming in Brad's head. He returned Nate's nod. It wasn't ideal to have officers in the field, but Nate was right. They needed as many hands as possible on deck.
~~~
With a rough plan in place, Brad went over to the soft-serve ice cream machine. Unlatching the sides, he hit the release button which swung the ice cream machine up, revealing SCUBA gear stowed inside.
Nate came up beside him. "How does the ice cream machine still work if the insides are storing your gear?"
Brad shrugged, more aware of the confines of the truck than ever. "We make do. Besides, the canisters came loose when we stored them under the counter and Trombley tripped over them. Nothing makes me more nervous than Trombley tripping while carrying his SAW so we jimmy-rigged this set-up."
"Nice."
"So, do you remember how to use a rebreather?" Brad asked, putting some distance between them after picking up the scrubber canisters and the jug of CO2 absorbent and laying them down on the counter. Then he leaned over and grabbed some gloves and dust masks, handing a set to Nate, along with an empty canister.
"Vaguely," Nate said putting the gloves on, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort he caused Brad when he stepped into his personal space. "It's been a year. Remember, I just came back from the desert."
Inhaling deeply, Brad tried to hide his grimace. If Nate was the least experienced diver then it would make sense for him to pair up with Brad. Part of him had been dreading this possibility, since it first occurred to him, while the other part of him exalted in it now. "Okay, then you'll be with me. Trombley, take over driving for Ray, I want him on electronics. Walt, I need you back here."
Brad handed Walt another canister when he got in the back, and then pulled out a laminated paper. Thankfully, there was enough to do that there was no time to dwell on any frivolous issues. "Walt, you're gonna prep Ray's equipment as well and the two of you will make a team. Here's the pre-dive checklist. After we fill the scrubber canisters and attach them to the lungs, we'll run through this list of checks; valves, hoses, and monitors. Assuming everything works on the first try it'll take us forty-five minutes to finish prepping the equipment."
Nate glanced at his watch. "Then let's hope everything works on the first try."
***
"Nate, we've got problems," Ray said after they'd been working in silence for an hour.
Nate put down his completed pack and went over to the workstation Ray had set up behind the driver's seat. Brad quickly joined them. The overhead light up front was turned off to give better contrast on the monitors, as well as to avoid drawing attention to their vehicle on the road. Between the dark, the three laptops connected to various receivers and the three of them, it was pretty cozy. Brad had no choice but to lean over Nate's shoulder to see, inhaling the scent of Nate's distinctive woodsy aftershave.
Ray tapped a screen which showed a paused image from a surveillance camera. "I just finished analyzing our tapes for the last forty-eight hours. This was taken when we stopped the Mustang. Remember him?" Ray pointed to the fuzzy image of the neighbor who had come out asking what was going on, "He's a low level operative in the Leon cartel."
"Then they knew we'd captured him! Why didn't we pick this up sooner?" Nate demanded.
Ray threw his hands up. "The facial recognition program is set up to start comparing faces with the highest level operatives known to us. Let's just be happy it picked it up now."
"So this is a trap?" Walt asked, joining them, pushing Brad even further into Nate's personal space. "They knew the Mustang driver would talk?"
Nate looked over his shoulder and met Brad's eyes. "Why didn't command pick up on this?"
Brad arched an eyebrow but Ray beat him to it. "Because it's living proof that Darwin was a crackpot, that natural selection is a lie perpetrated by Satan-worshipping fucknuts and that chaos rules the mother-fucking world."
Nate stared at Ray with his mouth hanging slightly open.
"What Ray is trying to articulate is that command doesn't know their left nut from an ingrown toenail," Brad said, translating Ray's bullshit with ease.
Squeezing out of their tight circle, Nate hopped into the front seat and picked up the radio. "Godfather, this is Bravo-Two actual, over."
"Two-actual, send. Over."
Nate picked up the handset so that the conversation was no longer being broadcast on speakers and relayed the intel they'd just picked up. There were long stretches of silence where Brad tried to guess Godfather's side of the conversation, but he didn't have to try to hard-the expression on Nate's face said it all.
They were still going ahead with the plan. When Nate reiterated the fact that it was likely a trap, his face darkened even further.
"Yes, sir," he said finally, and hung up shortly thereafter.
Sitting there, Nate stared out the front of the truck. Walt got the hint and went back to work and even Ray was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and started typing away on his keyboard until only Brad was left, watching Nate as he watched the road.
Squeezing between the two front seats, Brad turned his back on Trombley driving to give them some measure of privacy.
"They want us to carry on?" Brad asked in a low voice.
Nate nodded.
"What else?"
Nate glanced at him, then glanced back at the road. "Command had already analyzed our tapes. They've had birds on the AO all this time and want us to go ahead. They've alerted the coast guard to block off the entrance into the bay and want us to swoop in and apprehend the owners."
"The cartel isn't stupid. They're going to know all this."
Nate was silent awhile. When Ray started hassling Walt about something, Nate finally continued. "Godfather intercepted a phone call between two of their members. They know that most of the company is being detained by police. He thinks that because of this, they won't be expecting us."
Brad almost snorted. "What do you believe, sir?"
Nate gave him a look that Brad was starting to recognize. It was measuring, as if trying to figure out why Brad kept using the honorific, and maybe trying to figure out if Brad was using it sarcastically. "I don't know. Maybe they're right, Brad. Maybe half of Bravo getting arrested is the red herring we need. Godfather's the one with the intel, we shouldn't question his decisions. We don't have the big picture."
Brad held his tongue. His own naive belief in Godfather's omnipotence had died a painful death three months after he'd joined this operation when he'd watched his platoon commander get shot because of bad intel. He wanted to grab Nate by the shoulders and shake him. He was supposed to be smarter than this.
"It's okay, Brad," Nate said, apparently reading his mind, "We can do this. Poke's already there, reconning the area and I have the utmost faith in your abilities. Get us on that yacht, we'll check it out and find these son of a bitches before they do any more harm."
"Yes, sir." There wasn't really anything more he could say. Brad wasn't sure if he was happy about Nate's faith in him or not. He turned to go when Nate caught his arm.
"We're good, right?" Nate asked, lowering his voice even more so that it was impossible to miss his meaning.
Except that Brad was the master of avoiding things he didn't want to talk about. He kept his face blank. "Yes, sir."
"No, really, Brad. Cut the 'sir' crap. If we're going into this, I want to know what's wrong." Nate still hadn't let go of Brad's arm and his grip was tight.
With nowhere to go, Brad weighed the pros and cons of having this conversation. If they could lay down the ground rules, maybe he could find some way of working with Nate without going crazy. It was a toss up if the risks outweighed the benefits. Brad squared his shoulders and dropped his voice as well, though Ray had started singing again, Trombley was yelling at him and the noise level in the truck was back to its usual level.
"You may have gotten a certain impression from Ray, about me."
Nate's forehead creased. "What impression would that be?"
Brad stared at him hard, trying to figure out if Nate was being diplomatic or oblivious. He wagered on diplomatic. "I just want you to know that I would never complicate an op or our working relationship by initiating anything inappropriate between us."
There was silence for a few seconds, Nate studying him before finally speaking. "Ah. Well, it's okay, Brad. I don't swing that way."
Brad swallowed hard, Nate's answer not the one he'd been expecting.
"So we're good?"
"We're good," Brad replied, still shocked. It wasn't often that people surprised him, and Nate seemed to be doing so constantly. The eye contact, the random physical contact...It hadn't even occurred to Brad that maybe this was nothing except a weird fantasy in his own head. Brad tried to bury his disappointment, tried to convince himself that this was actually what he'd wanted but it seemed pointless to lie to himself now.
Apparently he was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't and in both cases the situation really fucking sucked.
Somewhere around Staten Island, NY
"Hey Brad?"
Brad looked up from the GPS he was programming. Ray and Walt were sitting on the floor eating stale nacho chips and occasionally throwing them at Trombley who was still driving. Nate was staring off into the distance in the passenger seat, lost in his own thoughts. "Yes, Ray?"
"Do you think we can find out if the CIA's been conducting mind experiments for the last fifty years?"
"No, Ray. Probably not," Brad said, sitting back and stretching his neck. Walt was grinning at Ray's non-sequitur, though somehow, Ray himself was managing to keep a straight face. With a sigh, Brad decided to play along. Sometimes it was just easier to let Ray go in the direction he wanted. "Please don't tell me this is about children's television programming again?"
"Nooo," Ray trailed off, innocently, "Okay, yes it is. But look at the facts, Brad. Cookie monster loved his cookies and now there's a diabetes epidemic on our hands. Then, I heard about some guy who found a cipher and used it on the letters and numbers at the end of Sesame Street to find the location of a sugar stockpile in the Soviet Union, big enough to make a million pounds of sugar cookies. How fucked up is that? There are millions of American minds that have been poisoned by blood-sucking-communists."
"You think the Soviets wanted to make us all fat?"
"Maybe," Ray said, obviously getting into it. "It's basic military tactics. It costs more in time and resources to tend to someone who's injured as opposed to burying the ones who are dead. Maybe that's what they've done to us. Made us a nation of obese diabetics who drain billions of dollars in Medicaid, hospital care and repaving of parking lots to make more handicap spots. They're sucking our economy dry. Then there's the fact that they've contributed to the break-up of families by encouraging homosexual tendencies. What if Ernie and Bert made us all gay, Brad?"
Brad's mouth quirked up at the corner. Sometimes it took Ray a while to get where he was going but not today. It was easy to forget that Ray picked up on a lot when he was keeping his mouth shut. Shaking his head, Brad tried to keep his voice light. Walt had moved on to reading over his pre-dive checklist and Brad had no desire to call attention to the actual point of the conversation. "Not all of us, Ray."
Ray met his eyes, his face showing some inkling of dismay. "Really?"
"Really," Brad said, disappointment still curdling in his stomach. It actually felt nice to confide in Ray-he wasn't nearly as retarded as he pretended to be, though it didn't stop Brad from getting his own dig in. "But if you want to blame a yellow and orange puppet for your homoerotic fantasies, I'm not going to stop you. Not everyone on this team is hairy, you know."
A blush crept over Ray's cheeks, rendering him speechless for a second. Brad's eyes flicked over to Walt who was still absorbed in his task and then back to Ray who had shut his mouth and was clenching it tight.
Brad felt a twinge of sympathy for Ray because apparently Ray and Walt's relationship was even more fucked up than Brad's non-relationship with Nate. Walt bit his lip, completely oblivious to everything and Brad decided maybe he was lucky to know where he stood with Nate. Even if he was standing out in left-field, all by himself.
~~~
Next - Part III
Index
Part I * Part II * Part III * Part IV * Part V