Page 86 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“Huzzah!” the Brit shouted. The rest of the men cheered.
“We’ll pick up training the day after tomorrow and finish out at the end of the week. We’ll be shipping out after that.”
“Which squad scored the highest?” McGuire asked.
Dragu? pulled up his tablet. “It was close. But one squad was the clear winner.”
He read aloud the names of Osipenko and Al-Mawas, the ex-Wagner Russian and the Syrian.
“Five thousand in Bitcoin has already been added to each of your accounts. Congratulations.” He tucked the tablet under his arm and clapped. There were a few grumblings among the squads that thought they had won, but even they joined in the clapping.
“And the three squad leaders?”
“Osipenko, Al-Mawas, of course. And…McGuire.”
“That’s a bit of all right,” McGuire said, smiling. His German squad mate slapped him on the back.
“How about telling us where we’re going?” the Nigerian asked.
“No tengo la menor idea,” Plata said. “I’m like you. I’m in the dark. But I’m also a soldier, and paid well. It doesn’t matter. We go wherever we are sent. Anything else?”
“You said there was a first reward. That means there’s a second,” Linc said.
Dragu? grinned ear to ear.
“First we clean our weapons, then we hit the showers. And after that? Well, tonight we’re going to party!”
The mercs roared like Vikings with lusty delight.
?
In the hustle and bustle of crowded showers, getting dressed, and squared away, Juan and Linc managed to share a few carefully whispered words out of earshot.
“I know a fat man who’s probably worried,” Linc said.
“These guys have been on me like ticks. Maybe tomorrow.” Cabrillo was referring to his miniature satellite phone stashed in his combat leg. “But it’s not a one-way street.”
Linc knew he was referring to their embedded trackers. TheOregonhad eyes on them.
“You think maybe our other friend will show up soon?” They still hadn’t seen the Vendor. In fact, his name hadn’t been mentioned at all.
“Hope so.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“We play it by ear, one day at a time.”
A dinner bell rang outside.
Linc smiled. “Finally. I’m starving.”
?
Plata’s cooks had gone all-out. One of them sliced steaming hot pieces from the giant pig still crackling on the spit. Another tended a roasting lamb for the two nominal Muslims in their midst. The air was scented with the smoky sweetness of the roasted flesh.
Another cook served up fresh lobster out of boiling pots along with coconut shells brimming with melted butter. A third was grilling thick filets of tuna. A long table was festooned with papayas, guavas, mangoes, and other tropical delights. But it was the bartender offering copious amounts of whiskey, vodka, rum, champagne, and Turkish raki that was the real hit.
Plata had wisely secured all of the weapons before the drinking began. He also announced he would be closing the bar early. The unintended consequence was that everybody who wanted to get drunk simply drank more, faster. Even Plata and Dragu? got hammered.
