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"I swear it's on, old man, I swear on my mother's grave. It's this fucking weather. It's doing something to the wireless."

"Why are you even here? Where are your lobos?"

"Hundred meters away, tucked in a ditch. I garnered this is a decent spot and thought you'd think the same. Don't worry, I'm within command range."

"What about spacing?"

"Don't lobo handlers operate in pairs, anyway?"

"Don't answer my question with a question. I almost killed you, fucking cretin. Next time try the wireless until it works."

Gray was angry. Krinkov was career, first-hand loboman, with a silver pin and a recommendation. But he was easygoing. Easygoing people, in Gray's mind, were wrong.

"Sorry, old man. Promise. Big promise, okay? I'll take the eastern side, you keep your position. Sounds good?"

Gray sighed again. There was no point to be angry now. He'll have plenty of time to do it on the base.

"Yeah. Yeah. Twenty-twenty, Krinkov."

"Twenty-twenty, Mr. Gray. Hey…"

Gray, already poised at his old perch, broke his visor away from the rifle.

"Yeah?"

"You… any chance you've got any ciggies on you?"

A tangible pause took place. Krinkov shifted, uncomfortably.

"You for real?"

"I mean, I forgot mine, okay? I had them in this here pouch, but Zulu chewed me on some bullshit, and…"

Gray interrupted him by throwing the red-white box. Krinkov snatched it, mid-flight.