Europa Strike by Ian Douglas Page A

most officers don’t fraternize. They’re afraid of looking like idiots. But your people deserve better. Let ’em know you’re in the foxhole with ’em. And, by God, when the shooting starts, be sure you are in there with ’em.”
    â€œI understand,” Jeff said. “But…well, Europa is going to have some special challenges for us. Radiation. The cold and ice. And there’s a possibility now we’ll be facing the Chinese as well. I need to know what I’m overlooking. What I’m missing.”
    â€œThat, son, is the responsibility of your senior NCOs and your junior officers. You just make sure your men can see you. The hardest part is always the twenty-four hours before you go in. The waiting .” Chesty Puller’s image looked thoughtful, almost musing. “Chinese and ice, huh? Sounds like Chosin all over again.”
    Jeff had to think a moment, but the reference came to him. Puller, the original Chesty Puller, had won his fifth Navy Cross and the Army Distinguished Service Cross at the Chosin Reservoir, in North Korea, during a hellish retreat through deadly, bitter cold, under constant attack by Chinese forces. When informed that his regiment was surrounded, he had said, “Those poor bastards. They’ve got us right where we want them. We can shoot in every direction now.” He’d led his men down sixty miles of icy mountain road as they fought their way out of the trap. It was one of the Corps’ prouder memories.
    â€œShouldn’t be that bad, General,” he replied. “The temperature’ll be 140 below, but we’ll be a hell of a lot better equipped and supplied than you were at Chosin. And the Chinese probably won’t be a factor. Not with the JFK riding shotgun.”
    â€œIf you’re lucky, you’re right,” Puller said. “If you’re smart , you’ll be prepared. For anything.”
    A mental command, five memorized digits and the word “disconnect” repeated hard in his thoughts three times, broke the VR connection. He blinked at the gray-painted overhead, reestablishing his awareness of what was real and what wasn’t. After a moment, he removed the VR headgear, stowed it, and walked back into the common area.
    In one of the arms lockers aft he found a Sunbeam M-228 squad laser weapon, a 10-megawatt SLAW, and carried it forward to the mess table. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a seat with the ten men and women cleaning their M580s.
    â€œOf course not, sir,” one of the men said. He was a skinny, sharp-faced corporal from New York named George Leckie. “Grab some chair!”
    Gunnery Sergeant Tom Pope grinned. “Slumming, sir?”
    â€œGunny, after four hours of staff meetings, I consider it R&R.”
    â€œI hear ya, sir.”
    One of the women—with hard muscles and sweat gleaming on her bare chest—said something to the blond woman beside her, and both laughed.
    â€œWhat was that, Campanelli? Didn’t catch it.”
    â€œUh…nothing, sir.” When he continued to look at her, she shifted uncomfortably and added, “I just said that that was a damned big gun you had there, and, uh, I wondered if the major knew how to use it. Sir.” Her chest and shoulders flushed dark as she spoke. Marines never used the word gun except to refer to artillery—especially shipboard guns—or a penis. The squad laser was a weapon, a piece, an M228, or a SLAW. Not a gun.
    â€œWell, it’s been a few years,” he said easily. “Maybe you can give me some pointers.” The others laughed, a little nervously, but louder when he grinned.
    It had been a good many years since he’d had to do this, but his hands remembered the proper movements. Power off…cable feed disconnect…pull the barrel locking lever back…grasp the barrel with the other hand and pull forward and up…
    Yeah, he remembered. And