76: Bacon and Eggs and Bullets

Danny didn’t seem too upset about sleeping downstairs, rather than in the guest bed with Crash.  It had seemed easier to him than explaining to Mrs Kelly that they were dating.  The morning after their arrival, he sat up on his Marine-issue barracks cot and stretched.  The folding cot squeaked a little as he unzipped his sleeping bag from the inside and swung his bare legs out and over the side.  The squeaking made Vig stir and mutter in his sleep.  The five of them had cleared space among the memorabilia and detritus, and laid out four of the folding cots that Mr Kelly had acquired over the years, while Crash was baled up in the guest room despite her protests.  A keen outdoorsman, in addition to his years in the Marine Corps, retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Marius Kelly had all manner of knick-knacks for hunting and camping stashed away under the house and in his toolshed.

Danny pulled on a pair of baggy cargo pants and a jumper, walking barefoot up the back stairs and into the kitchen.  Sam and Jock were sitting at the table, talking quietly and scribbling on a sheet of paper, amongst a thicket of cereals and fried foods.  They bid him a good morning as he grabbed a bowl and helped himself to cereal.  “Hey.  What you drawing?”

Jock passed him the paper.  The rough scribble looked like a cylinder with some extra lines around it, and a smaller cylinder inside one end.

“Zip gun,” explained Sam.

Danny looked at them blankly.

“A Glasgie Firecracker, lad,” said Jock.

“I… I still don’t get it.”

“It’s a kind of improvised firearm,” said Sam, patting him on the arm.  “Metal tube with a bullet at one end, and a trigger mechanism on it somewhere.  Maybe the size of a large pen.”

“Kind of inaccurate, without a grip or anything.”

“Did you ever hear of the ‘Liberator’ pistol, from the Second Earth War?”

“Nope.  I’m guessing it has something to do with taking out guards, judging by the name.”

“Pretty much.  You sneak up on an enemy soldier and shoot him from point blank, or use it to capture him and his equipment.  Either way, you now have his rifle and ammo to use for yourself.  Now, this one here is a single shot only, and reloading would mean unscrewing the back half.  You’d be better off carrying two or three in your pocket.  The Liberator looked like a cross between a kid’s toy and a flare gun, and held three extra rounds inside the grip.  The biggest feature, though, was the simplicity.  Simple to manufacture, simple to operate, and cheaper per unit than a cup of coffee.  They came in styro boxes that could literally be tossed out the back of an aircraft in huge quantities, bulk-dropped right into the hands of the partisans.  They were designed for resistance groups and spies behind enemy lines.”

Danny was staring hard at the messy diagram.  “Clever.  Goes back to what you were saying on the ship, about our new job.  Raise resistance groups, start revolutions, topple the Council.”

“Aye,” agreed Jock.  “Can ye imagine the effect this kind of thing has on the morale of an occupying force?  Tha’ guns what look like pens can be dropped from the sky in such numbers tha’ they’ll nae find them all ‘afore the resistance does, and said resistance will use these hellish pens on them at the first chance they get?”

A burly, grey-haired man in a singlet and rugby shorts tramped into the kitchen.  “Morning, kids.  What’s this about a resistance?” he yawned.

“Morning, Dad,” said Sam.

“Master Guns,” said Jock politely.  He was only maybe fifteen or twenty years younger than Kelly, but still seemed like ‘one of the kids’.

“Morning, sir,” said Danny absently, still looking at the diagram.

M.Gy.Sgt Kelly laughed as he put the kettle on.  “Sir is for officers, son.  So, who’s planning a resistance against whom?”

The three seated at the table glanced at each other.  “Nobody,” they said in unison.

Crash walked in just then, rubbing her eyes.  “Master Guns,” she yawned.

“Morning, chickadee.  Or is it Captain Chickadee now?”

“Yeah,” she grinned sleepily, “I guess they told you already.”

The Master Gunny sat down at the table beside his son, while Danny and Crash covertly made eyes at each other and Jock went back to scribbling on the paper.  “So, Samuel,” he said sharply.  “New unit.  I’ve heard murmurs from friends.  Your names pop up, they like to let me know.  I’d like to know just what ‘3 IND COY’ means, and what you kids have to do with it.”

Sam smiled and sipped at a mug of coffee—good stuff, too, not the rot-gut Navy brew.  “Third Independent Company.  I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining the reference.”

Marius Kelly stared down at the tabletop, eyes wide, lost in a memory.  “I do indeed.  Interesting.  I assume you plan for it to be much like the original Independent Companies, then?”

“Something like that.  Deep-penetration raids, snatch-and-grab, sabotage.  The works.”

“Interesting.  Oh, to be young again,” he laughed.

Danny chewed his lip.  “You mean there’s been a unit with that name before?”

“Second Earth War.  The Independent Companies were a very secret project the Allied forces came up with.  Irregular units, made up of soldiers and civilians alike, all specialists in their fields; fighting, propaganda, medicine, logistics, engineering, whatever kind of experts they needed.  Much like the Jedburgh raiders, they were designed simply to infiltrate into enemy-held territory and cause havoc.”