Joint Task Force #4: Africa Read Online Free PDF Page B

rank, they were on their own. Lieutenant commanders could be a pain in the ass; just senior enough to not think of themselves as junior officers and junior enough to still need some professional guidance that only squared-away chief petty officers such as himself, Cryptologic Technician “R” branch Wilbur “Badass” Razi, could provide. Of course, even his wife didn’t call him Wilbur. What in the hell were his parents thinking to name a badass like him Wilbur?
    “Take ’em off!” he shouted to those still wearing them. “Pack them and put them in their places. We’re going to try it again—”
    Groans filled the fuselage.
    “—later in the flight.”
    The groans subsided.
    “Sometimes Badass forgets,” Rockdale whispered to MacGammon.
    “Man, don’t let him hear you call him that. Badass will feel he has to make us do two drills instead of just one, and he’ll use you and I as examples to the officers on how good he is in straightening us out.”
    “Yeah, you know how he is,” a third aircrewman piped up as he shoved his parachute into the racks above the four lounge seats near the entry hatch to the plane.
    “Oh, Stetson,” Rockdale grunted, struggling out of the tight straps. “I thought you Texans were mean, tough fighting machines.” The parachute eased off his shoulders. “There.”
    “I prefer the Texan image of a love machine,” Tommy “Stetson” Carson replied.
    “Yeah, longhorn steers,” MacGammon added.
    Rockdale placed the parachute on the deck, the side previously against his back faced up. He laid the top straps across it, lifting the bottom straps over them.
    “About the only image of a lover I can see of you is one with a fistful of dollars.” Rockdale lifted the parachute, leaned over the passenger seats along the rear left side of the EP-3E reconnaissance aircraft, and shoved it on top of another parachute someone had stowed.
    “Better than what you’ve got in your fist.”
    “You three gonna keep grab-assing,” Razi said, “Or, you gonna stow those parachutes and get to your positions?”
    “Chief, mine’s already up there,” Rockdale said, smiling.
    “Yeah, and with your aircrew skills, you probably got the straps tied together so they don’t fall apart. And, you, Carson. You gonna carry your parachute around with you for the mission or you gonna stow it properly?”
    “Chief, I was just waiting for MacGammon to move out of the way.”
    “Gee, thanks, Stetson,” MacGammon moaned.
    “MacGammon, hurry it up. Why is it whenever there’s a problem, you seem to be nearby or in it?”
    MacGammon shrugged. “Lucky?” MacGammon turned and threw his parachute up with the others. Standing on tiptoes for a couple of seconds, the experienced aircrewman shoved the parachute into its rack. When he turned, Chief Razi still stood there. “Hey, Chief, how come I don’t have a nickname like Stetson, here, and Rocky Rockdale?” He clinched his fist. “I want a name that sounds studly —”
    “How about dickhead?” Razi said. “Now, shut your griping, stow that parachute, Carson, and you three get to your positions. We’re going to cross the border into Guineashortly and you can’t tell me you three have pre-missioned your positions. You think the mission commander is gonna delay on-track time so you prima donnas can finish telling each other how much you like each other?” He jerked his thumb toward the row of operating consoles. “Get your ass in gear,” he ordered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peeters watching him. Damn good thing, too, he thought.
    “Here,” Rockdale said, taking the parachute from the shorter Carson. He twisted and shoved the parachute on top of another one above the passenger seats.
    “You three are the last in the aircraft. You got FOD walk-down tomorrow. Maybe that’ll help you get your acts together.”
    “Yes, Chief,” they all said in unison. Foreign Object Damage—commonly known as FOD—was something everyone did,