Follow the hallway back the way you came when you were driving the forklift earlier. You'll encounter 3 mercenaries and 2 pit bulls as you go. You can use the crates for cover or jump on top to avoid being bitten by the dogs. Or, just get each dog's attention and back away firing, then move in to kill the handler. Pick up any grenades, health packs and SMG ammo they drop. You can also get a MACHINE GUN here if you don't already have one. CHECKPOINT 20 is just before the next room.
Weapons used by gangs can include shaved-down baseball bats, sections of pipe taped at the ends, spiked wristbands, Chemical Mace, knives, handguns, sawed-off shotguns and automatic firearms such as Uzi machine guns, AK-47 assault rifles, pistols or 9-millimeter semi-automatic handguns. Gang members have also used homemade bombs and Molotov cocktails. In a few instances gang members have been arrested with hand grenades. Some weapons can also be made of nonmetallic substances, like plastic knives. These can easily pass through metal detectors. Weapons can also be concealed, like a knife in a pen or in a lipstick holder or in the air-conditioning duct of a car. Guns have been concealed in video cameras, air tire gauges, pagers and even cellular telephones. Concealing weapons has become a common practice among many gangs.
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Now down in the rain in the dark the Kid From Brooklyn is digginginto mildewed pockets for colorful bits of gummed paper. It all started when the Kid From Brooklyn pulled an R&R in Japan. He took the bullet train to Kyoto, scarfed up beaucoup sake and Japanese bennies,and took long hot baths with slant-eyed naked jailbait. “I’m a salty Lance Corporal who is short, short, short,”the Kid From Brooklyn said when he came back from Japan. “I’m so short, Icould fall of a dime. I’m so short the gooks probably can’t even seeme.” In Tokyo the Kid sourvenired himself a small black stamp album. Now he’s back in-country to pull his tour of duty in a world of shit. Only he’s different now. He has changed. Now the Kid From Brooklynis a dedicated stamp collector. Enemy postage stamps depict exciting scenes of war and politics. North Vietnamese troops shake hands with smiling Viet Cong under a Communist redstar and wreath. Columns of ragged and forlorn American prisoners of war are marchedoff to Hanoi prison camps. A helicopter gunship with an over-sized U.S. on its sideplunges to earth in flames to the cheers of an all-girl peasant militia crew behind thevillage anti-aircraft gun. An old papa-san walks along a paddy dike, a hoe in onehand and a rifle in the other. I watch the Kid From Brooklyn, hunched over a suspended carcass,indulging himself in his grubby hobby. I know that it is my job to climb down thereand drag his section eight ass back behind the wire where it belongs. I know that I should do that, most ricky-tick, but I don’t. I need him as bait. “Damn,” the Kid From Brooklyn says, gently shaking his legloose from a wild strand of tanglefoot that has caught him in the ankle. He bendsdown to another shredded lump of shadow and frisks it for diaries, wallets, piasters, loveletters, and crumbling black-and-white photographs of gook girlfriends. Everythingthat looks like it might have postage stamps in it gets stuffed into one of the cargopockets on the front of his baggy green trouser legs. In the monsoon rain the Kid is a black silhouette. His poncho isoutlined by silver blips. He is a perfect target.
my radio handset and the cannon cockers get wired and in forty seconds I can crank upmore firepower than a Panzer division. Somewhere in the rear a mortar tube fumps. My finger squeezes up all the slack on the trigger. I take a deepbreath. I’ve got the jungle covered. I’m looking forward to workingthe 60 and cutting up the black night with red lines of bullets. Five hundred yards downrange and moon high, a mute pock. Light, vast, harsh, and white, spills out across the black sky, melts, then floatsdown with the rain. An illumination flare sways under a little white parachute,squeaking and dripping sparks that hiss and pop. I hold my breath and freeze. Now is not the time to make a wrongmove. The Phantom Blooper is just waiting for me to do something stupid like a NewGuy. Down in the wire, the Kid From Brooklyn stops and looks up at thelight. Near Sorry Charlie, our pet skull, the Kid hunkers down, pounded by coldgusts of wind and monsoon rain. Black laughter drifts in from No Man’s Land. The Kid turnsoutboard and slowly unslings his rifle. Behind his rain-fogged glasses his eyes arebig in his face. There is the sound of a metallic wine bottle popping open and there isthe moment of perfect silence and then one M-79 blooper fragmentation grenade hits the KidFrom Brooklyn and the Kid From Brooklyn does a very bad impression of John Kennedycampaigning in Dallas and in silent slow motion the Kid From Brooklyn’s headdissolves into a cloud of pink mist and then bam and the Kid From Brooklyn falls inpieces all over the area, blown away, killed in action and wasted, shot dead andslaughtered. The Kid From Brooklyn’s headless body is a contorted blob of waxin the ghost light of the illumination flare. One arm gone. One arm convertedto pulp. Legs bent too far and in the wrong directions. Ribs curving upincredibly white from inside a glistening black cavity which, as though on fire, issteaming. Abruptly, illumination fades. Night falls on my position. Ashadow walks across my field of fire.
business and business is good. The Commandant of the Marine Corps has ordered youto Khe Sanh to get yourself some trigger time and pick up a few sea stories. But youare not even here to win the D-F-M, the Dumb Fucker's Medal. The only virtueof the stupid is that they don't live long. The Lord giveth and the M-79 takethaway. There it is. Welcome to the world of zero slack." The New Guy swats away a whining mosquito, looks at his boots, sayssweetly, hating my guts, "Aye-aye, sir." I don't say anything. I wait. I wait until the New Guylooks up, looks at me. He snaps to attention, a ramrod up his ass, his chin tuckedin. "Yes, SIR!" I stroll down the muddy catwalk of rope-handled ammo crates. Ipick up a short black cardboard cylinder from the firing parapet. I tear off blackadhesive tape from around the cardboard cylinder until it breaks open. An olive-drabegg drops into my hand, hard, heavy, and cold. There is tape around the spoon; Itear it off. I say, "I know you've seen all of John Wayne's war movies. You probably think you are in Hollywood now and that this is your audition. In the last reel of this movie I'm supposed to turn out to be a sentimental slobwith a heart of gold. But you're just another fucking New Guy and you're too dumb todo anything but draw fire. You don't mean shit to me. You're just one morenameless regulation-issue goggle-eyed human fuckup. I've seen a lot of ol' boys comeand go. It's my job to keep your candy ass serviceable. I'm the mostsquared-away buck private in this green machine lash-up, and I will do myjob." I hold down the spoon on the grenade with a thumb and I hook my otherthumb into the pull ring. I jerk out the cotter pin. I put the pull ring intomy pocket. The New Guy is staring at the grenade. He thinks now that maybeI'm a little dien cai dau--"crazy." He tires to move away but Ipunch him in the chest with the frag and I say, "Take it, New Guy, or I willget crazy on you. Do it now." Awkward, stiff, and scared shitless, the New Guy touches the grenadewith his fingertips to see if it's hot. His trembling fingers get a grip on thespoon. I let him breathe his bad
I look down at the wristwatch hanging from the buttonhole of thebreast pocket of my utility jacket. I say to the New Guy, "I willinspect this position again in two hours, you gutless little pissant. You will not evenfall asleep. When I give you the word you will return my personal handgrenade in a serviceable condition. You will not even allow my personal handgrenade to blow itself up and hurt itself. You will not even mess up myfavorite bunker with horrible remains of your disgusting fat body." The New Guy swallows, nods. "Aye-aye, sir." He'sreally
scared shitless now. He's scared of me, scared of the frag, scared of everythingand everybody on the planet. I say, "When the Phantom Blooper comes, do not work the 60. Pop a frag. Or call in for artillery support. Pop frags all over thearea if you want to, many, many of them. When you're standing lines you frag firstand forget about asking the questions. Keep your shit wired tight at all times. But do not work the 60. The tracers in the 60 will give away yourposition." But the New Guy is not listening. He's distracted. Down in the wire a squad of Marines is coming in off a night ambush. Somebody pops a star cluster flare and five glowing green balls of beautifulfireworks swoosh up and sparkle down. A bone-weary squad leader issues a militaryorder: "Hippity hop, mob stop." I say, "What is your major malfunction, numbnuts? How longwill it take me to forget your name?" Without warning I get a firm gripon the New Guy's Adam's apple and I slam him hard into the bunker wall. Most of theair is knocked out of him. I choke out what's left. I get right up into the New Guy's face. "I can't hear you,you spineless piece of lowlife. Are you going to cry? Go ahead--squirt me afew. You better sound off like you got a pair, sweetheart, or I will personallyunscrew your head and shit in your shoulders!" His face red, Private Owens tries to speak. His eyes are bulgingout and he's crying. He can't breathe. His eyes lock on me, the eyes of a ratin a trap. I stand by to make my hat most ricky-tick. The New Guy looks likehe's just about ready to faint and drop the grenade. "AYE-AYE, SIR!" he screams, crazy, desperate. He shovesme back. He makes his free hand into a fist and hits me in the face. His eyesare turning to the dark side now; he sees himself in my face as though in a mirror. He hits me again, harder. We're relating now, we're communicating. Violence: the international language. The New Guy glares at me withpure uncut hatred in his puffy red eyes. The New Guy shoves me back again, sneering at me now, daring me to stophim, inviting me to get in his way, meaning it, not afraid now, not caring what I mightdo, a little crazy
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