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periphery of the training area and, not pausing to speak to anyone else, made a beeline for Reyes and Brady. These two were now grappling on the foam mats – but they were grappling with knives, and not rubber practice ones.
    Reyes had Brady in a rear chokehold, his forearm locked around his windpipe, and mimed stabbing him repeatedly in the face. Unfortunately, his victim was a tournament champion in Brazilian ju jitsu – and instantly dropped his chin, shoulders, and elbows, threw Reyes over his shoulder, locked his arm out, and then repeatedly mock-stomped him in the face.
    “Sucks to be your face,” Fick said down to the prone form of Reyes.
    “Oh, hey, Master Guns,” Reyes said, from around Brady’s foot.
    “You two on me,” Fick said. Brady pulled Reyes up off the floor, and the pair followed Fick to an out-of-the-way spot, off near the planting beds. He paused before speaking, just giving his two Marines a baleful look.
    “How are you healing up?” he finally asked.
    Neither of these two had spent much time thinking about it – but both had been seriously injured in the fight on Beaver Island. Brady had merely been shot in the arm. But Reyes had been blown up, catching significant shrapnel and burns across his body – especially his right leg. Until a couple of days ago, he could barely walk without a cane. Now both were merrily jocking up for the Somalia mission.
    “All squared away,” Reyes said.
    “Ready to get some,” Brady added.
    That seemed to cover it as far as they were concerned.
    Fick’s face did more unfamiliar contortions. It was almost as if he was worrying. It looked to his two Marines like the old grandmother version of the hard-ass master gunnery sergeant they knew and loved to hate.
    “Maybe you two ought to hang back on this one,” Fick finally said.
    “What?” Reyes exclaimed, looking like he’d been kicked in the junk.
    Brady cocked his head, skeptical. “So, what, just you and Graybeard step off?”
    Fick shook his head. “We can bring Sergeant Lovell. Pick out a fourth.”
    “Fuck that,” Reyes said. “We’re your best Marines. And you know it.”
    Brady nodded agreement. “The mission’ll have no better chance than with us along for it. Anyway, we’re not wounded – we’re handi-capable!”
    Fick exhaled. He tried on a smile – with the usual effect. Then he sagged a bit as he relented. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. And between the two of you freaks, you do make one healthy Marine – one top, one bottom. Although I don’t know which brain I want less.”
    Reyes and Brady were happy to ignore the insult, as long as they were on the mission. They smiled and went back to their mat, and to their knives.
    But Fick remained in that spot for a minute longer, his strained smile slowly fading. He was troubled, and his expression revealed it. He was trying to figure out whether what he was really concerned about was the success of the mission – or even the welfare of his Marines.
    Or whether it was something else.

Knob-Heads
    JFK - 04 Deck
    Henno moved assertively though the dim sardine tin that was the JFK ’s lower decks. He had a certain distinctive walk. It wasn’t affected. It was just something you picked up – growing up in the rural north of England, joining the British Army as early he did, and ending up at Hereford as he had.
    It was a walk that said he wasn’t going to fuck with you.
    Just as long as you refrained from having the very, very bad idea of fucking with him first. But then, if you did, all bets were off.
    For some reason there wasn’t anyone else down there at this time of day. Henno was down here now, deep in the bowels of the kilometer-long warship, heading for the MARSOC stores and weapons room. He’d been told they might have a replacement screw for the one that had gone missing from the Picatinny accessory rail on his rifle. It was annoying that he couldn’t find one in his own load-out – one of Henno’s least favorite pastimes