Fives and Twenty-Fives by Michael Pitre Read Free Book Online

your vehicle and scan,” he said. “You look around, five meters out from the wheels in every direction. Inside five meters, our armor plate is vulnerable to frag. Vulnerable to blast overpressure. A shock wave can rip the doors right off. You spot a wire, or two rocks stacked on top of each other, or a patch of disturbed dirt, you call it out. You spot a piece of trash that seems too heavy, you call it out. If it holds your attention for more than two seconds, you call it out.”
    I stood next to Gunny Stout when he gave the brief. He said it helped the Marines to see a corpsman next to the bomb tech. Everyone stood still when he talked. The only Marine allowed to move around during the convoy brief was Sergeant Gomez. She circled us like a sheepdog, making sure we all paid attention. Michelle Gomez, her full name. Found that out a long time later.
    Sergeant Gomez owned that platoon. She and Corporal Zahn, the two of them. They ran it as a team. Not because she needed Zahn for anything. Gomez had motivation to spare. Marines a foot taller than her would flinch when she came up on them. Just her voice could break bones. Full and Texan.
    She looked the part, too. Always kept her hair tied back and out of her eyes. Shiny, black hair smooth as a feather. If a strand or two fell down and tickled her cheek, she’d curse and step away to tie it right back. I watched her do it in the morning once, before reveille, behind the barracks hut when no one else was awake. She sat on the steps with her hair down, hands working it back into a bun. I couldn’t help but stop to watch. She noticed me and narrowed her eyes, all mad. Like, what the fuck you looking at? Turn around. Get back to work, asshole.
    Gunny Stout stopped talking as a cargo plane came in low over the lake, right on top of us. He never raised his voice, Gunny Stout. And he never looked at planes, even when all the other Marines did. Even Lieutenant Donovan and the other officers, standing off to the side while Gunny Stout gave the brief. They all looked up like it was the first plane they ever saw.
    Lieutenant Donovan had brown hair, brown eyes, and real good teeth. Had a bit of weight on him, but was tall enough to wear it, just barely. A real southern college boy, the lieutenant. Like he was on his way to an outdoor jam band festival one day, took a wrong turn, and somehow ended up in the Marines. He sat on the hood of his Humvee, his flak jacket and helmet stacked next to him while Gunny Stout gave the brief. The rest of us, the enlisted? We showed up to the brief with our gear already on . Sergeant Gomez made sure of that. The lieutenant, though, he could take his time, I guess. Cross his arms and watch with gold bars on his collar. Happy to be called “sir.” Happy to let Gunny Stout run the convoy. Happy to let Sergeant Gomez and Corporal Zahn run his platoon.
    Gunny Stout didn’t work for him, really. Lieutenant Donovan had the road-repair platoon, out filling potholes all day. Just that road repair had six vehicles and enough Marines to pull security while they did the work of patching the holes. It was tough work, too. Dirty and hot as hell in that body armor. But worse than that, those potholes always had another bomb under the rubble. And I do mean always.
    So it made sense we roll with them. We only had the one vehicle, the bomb disposal team. Gunny Stout, Staff Sergeant Thompson, a driver, and me. We didn’t even have a spare body to man the gun turret up top, though anyone could’ve jumped up there in a pinch.
    We’d go first, check the hole, and clear whatever new bomb was put in there overnight. Then Lieutenant Donovan’s guys, they’d come in behind us and get to work, filling the hole and patching it with concrete. First, they cut the jagged asphalt from around the edges to prep for aggregate. Then they carried those heavy bags of concrete over to a beat-up, old mixer. Just pouring down sweat inside that body armor. Had to watch for snipers,