No. Farley shook his head. No. In those four hours the Fata Morgana had flown through thick flak and swarming fighters and God’s own freak storm. She’d deadsticked down into some Moon Man version of the Grand Canyon, dogfighted on one engine with a goddamn monster, for christ’s sake, put down in the dark on unknown ground in enemy territory—and swung through every inch of it like Joe Louis with a white-hot grudge.
She sure did, Joe, the bully in his head agreed. And you fell in love with her because of it. The Voice of America was a jinx ship, a flying curse from nose to tail, and you burned her for it. But when it came time to pull the trigger on the Morgana your judgement was clouded and you were too damned late, and now she’s crawling with strangers and a good man’s dead. How’s that for bringing them through the fire, Captain Midnight?
They took their next break near the mile-wide fissure entrance. The canyon floor had grown much darker and a faint green glow came from center of the crater off in the far distance. The girl, Wennda, stood point, and from where Farley sat she was skylighted against that sickly light. He studied her and the landscape beyond her but could make out nothing that told him anything useful.
Shorty had dug into his bag of rations and now he was making the rounds, offering water and smokes. All of Farley’s men took some of each. Their new friends’ outfits had built-in drinking bladders and sipping tubes. They just looked confused by the cigarettes.
Broben was huffing and puffing with his hands on his knees. He’d gone through Basic like the rest of them, twenty-mile humps wearing forty-pound packs, drop and give me twenty, dig this, climb that. But he’d gained back a lot of the weight he’d lost in training, and he smoked like a burning tire factory.
Boney simply sat down against a rock and waited till his breathing slowed. Garrett and Everett had been carrying Francis, trading off with Sten and the other one, Arshall, who ran with the .30-cal on his shoulder. All four of them were big boys in terrific shape and looked as if they could run in their sleep.
Farley watched Martin and Plavitz approach the unarmed man who had run out to help bring Francis back. They spoke for a moment and Martin held out a hand. He and Martin were nearly the same size. They shook. Then Plavitz shook the man’s hand and patted his shoulder.
Farley went to the girl looking out at point. She glanced at him as he approached, and he nodded and showed his hands. “I just wanted to say thanks for helping us out of a tight spot,” he said. “And for everything you’re doing for my tail gunner, Francis.”
“You really aren’t from the Redoubt,” she said.
“Never heard of it.”
A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Yone said you had to be from somewhere else.”
“You have no idea how right he is.”
The furrow deepened. “But he can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is nowhere else.” She looked past him and raised an arm. Her colleagues immediately readied to march. Arshall came up from tail-end charlie, and he and Sten grabbed Francis up in the sling they’d rigged from some strong and super-lightweight material they used for a sleeping bag or blanket, Farley wasn’t sure which. Garrett and Everett grabbed the Browning and the remaining ammo. The small man, Yone, hung back as rear spotter. Farley wondered why he didn’t have a weapon. Maybe he’d lost it in some earlier engagement.
Broben touched his toes and coughed and quickly straightened up. He gave Farley a grim smile and a thumbs-up, and Farley realized he must have been looking concerned.
“You ain’t got no friends on your left,” said Broben.
“You’re right,” Farley replied.
They were barely out of the fissure and hugging the shadows at the western edge of the vast crater bowl when Yone signaled that they were being pursued. They were thirteen counting Francis and they scattered and took up position behind rockfalls and tumbled boulders that lined the crater perimeter. A few men shifted position after the group had established, and Farley noted with satisfaction that they had moved to widen the line of fire on anyone who might be approaching, without exposing their own men to friendly fire.
Farley held position alone and watched the girl work her way along the makeshift picket to Yone. They had a brief discussion. The girl turned back and studied the waiting array until she spotted Everett and Garrett. She signaled them with two fingers, mimed firing a big gun, and beckoned them to her. Garrett and Everett immediately came forward carrying the .30-cal and the worrisomely short ammo belt.
Farley felt Broben come up beside him. Both men stayed low and kept their eyes forward as they talked. The darker depth of the fissure entrance from which they had emerged loomed straight ahead. It all looked ancient, raw, foreboding.
“Another clown car?” asked Broben.
“Hope not.” Farley nodded at Garrett and Everett working their way to Wennda and Yone. “We’ve got one gun that can take them out, and it can’t have ten seconds of ammo left.”
Broben looked up, then looked away quickly. “Jesus,” he said. “I don’t recommend doing that.”
Farley glanced up. The crater wall rose up a distance his mind did not want to accept. He felt like a bug clinging to the ceiling of a vast cathedral and looking down at a distant floor that was the stripped-bare sky.
He looked away and blinked. “Don’t get that dizzy doing barrel rolls,” he said.
“Company,” said Broben.
It rolled out of the dark wedge of the fissure entrance, angular and flat-black. It turned left and came toward them slow and steady. As it neared Farley saw that this was not a fourth transport, but one of the three they had shot up.
“Christ, their jalopies don’t stay dead either,” said Broben.
“They must’ve put the good tires on the heap in best shape and come after us,” said Farley. “They don’t want us going back for the bomber. Or they don’t want these people getting back to their base with news of it.”
The girl turned away from the approaching transport and made a lowering motion with both hands. Farley got down, but she kept making the motion. He and Broben slid down until they could barely see, but the girl kept motioning.
“I don’t think so, sister,” muttered Broben.
Farley agreed. Maybe she knew something they didn’t—probably she did—but Farley wasn’t about to let others do his fighting for him while he cowered blind behind a rock. He shook his head at her.
She turned away and huddled up with Garrett and Everett. Then the gunners put on Wennda’s and Yone’s balaclavas. Wennda adjusted one of them and nodded, and the two men rolled a foot-high rock to the edge of their boulder and rested the barrel of the Browning on top of it. Garrett lay prone and sighted the machine gun while Everett held the ammo feed.
Farley looked at the pistol in his hand. It might as well have been a slingshot.
The transport came on. To Farley it looked purposeful, unwavering, as if it knew exactly where they’d stationed themselves.
At a hundred feet a red streak shot up from the vehicle like a firework. A moment later it exploded and a bright blue star flare on a parachute lit up the ground below.
“I hate these guys,” said Broben. “I don’t even know who they are, and I friggin hate ’em.”
Farley was about to make some reply, but a shadow streaked across them. He just had time to think that something would have to have passed beneath the flare to cast a shadow, when an angular, winged shape blurred into view fifty feet off the ground in utter silence. It banked left and shot skyward. Farley’s head turned to follow it and the troop transport exploded.