22
“We should have a name for this stuff,” Tomiko said as she brushed soapy water around the seal of one of the grenades.
“We do. The MG(B)-93 Forty-millimeter Rifle Grenade,” Rev told her.
“Ha-fucking-ha. I mean the virus inside. The money shot. We need something a little more threatening.”
The word had come down that every grenade had to be checked for leakage, which wasn’t very comforting. And since there were no tests for the virus, at least at the team level, that meant putting soapy water around the seal between the tip and the body, the one that was twisted to make it live, and watching for bubbles to form. Cricket was probably going apoplectic at the low-tech method.
“It’s not even a real virus,” Strap reminded them. “Just a sort-of virus.”
“We can call it the tin-ass-killer,” Radić said.
“That’s why he’s still a private,” Hussein told the rest of them.
Radić looked a little taken aback by that, and Tomiko said, “What, did the big mean sergeant hurt the little private’s feelings? Grow a pair.”
“How about KAFA?” Badem asked.
Everyone turned to him as he stood with a stupid grin on his face. “For Kill All Fucking Aliens.”
Nix laughed out loud and said, “See, Radić, that’s why he’s a PFC.”
Other names were thrown out there.
“Zappers.”
“SOT,” for “Suck On This.”
“Scorpion’s Sting.”
“Excalibur.”
“Acid.”
“Claudius.” Rev had to ask Punch for the reference. Leave it to Tomiko to throw a little Shakespeare into the conversation. And it was appropriate, but not a popular choice.
The master guns opened the door and stuck his head in. “You about done in here?”
Sergeant Nix looked around at how many grenades were left. “Another twenty minutes, Master Guns.”
“Make sure that’s all. I’ve locked on a sims at fifteen hundred, and I don’t want to lose it.”
“No problem. Building Two-Oh-Three?”
“Yep. Be there.”
“Hey, Master Guns. We’re trying to come up with a better name for the virus. All we’ve got is SOT. What do you think?” Hussein asked.
The team leader snorted and said, “As long as the stuff works, I don’t care if you call it my Great Aunt Teresa. Now get back to work and finish up.”
The door closed behind him, and Hussein asked, “So, we go with Great Aunt Teresa?” He stood, acted like he was firing a machine gun at the hip, and shouted, “Eat my Great Aunt Teresa, tin-ass!”
The team broke out laughing.
“Hey, tin-ass, you don’t want to meet my Great Aunt Teresa,” Radić said.
“What about gat. Great Aunt Teresa. G-A-T,” Rev said. “Gat.”
“That’s pretty dumb, even for you, Rev,” Hussein said.
“I don’t know. ‘Give me a gat.’ Short and sweet,” Tomiko said.
“Shit, you like it just because Rev said it,” Hussein said.
“Bite me,” Tomiko said with a scowl. “And now I’m going to call it a gat just because you said that, and you can go screw yourself.”
“Well, I—”
The general alarm blared across the camp, and then every speaker, either mounted or on their quantphones or tabs, erupted with “We are now in Condition One-Alpha. All hands return to your commands immediately and mount up.”
The Marines froze for a moment, and the announcement was repeated. And this time, someone cut in, her voice almost squeaking, “This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. The tin-asses are in the system!”