It seemed to take forever for the Trooper to back out. Finally, he shouted for Dixon to come.
Dixon had only the roughest idea of where he had stepped. He started to turn. Leteri yelled at him to stop.
“Exactly the way you came, BJ. Backwards if you can. Lean back with your right foot. That was the step you took.” He directed him with his light. “I can tell by the way you’re standing. See that mark there?”
“You’re right. Thanks.” He put his leg backwards, trying to pretend he was a character in a rewinding video. He found a foothold, shifted his weight, and took the backwards step. Whether he had found the exact footfall or just got lucky, nothing happened.
Three more steps and he was still intact. It would take four or five more to reach the boundary, where large boulders strewn on the gentle slope showed they’d be safe.
Probably.
“Go as slow as you want, Lieutenant,” said Winston. “No rushing here.”
Dixon flexed his upper leg muscles and studied the ground. He resisted the dash back to the line that was supposed to mean safety, tried to remember how he had walked, and saw the shadow of a boot print.
Or was it the top of a mine?
He moved his foot at the last second, planted, moved back another step, then another.
When he was finally far enough away, he let the com gear and his ruck sack slide off his back in a heap. Dixon rolled his head backwards on his neck and let out a breath of air so huge he nearly fell over.
Leteri came back next. Only Green and Winston were left. Green was ahead of Winston but the team leader insisted that he come back first.
“Just do what I fucking tell you to do,” he growled when Green protested. “Can’t you hear I’m getting hoarse?”
Dutifully, the medic began to retrace his steps. The arc he had followed took him near Winston’s position; they exchange a sardonic glance as he passed. Green took a step back, then rested, flexing as much as he could without moving his feet. He was about ten yards, no more, from safety, near where Dixon had been.
Practically home.
He took another step back, and exploded.
CHAPTER 24
It was a movie he was watching. The camera panned back from a wide shot, moving away from the brief flash and burst of dirt. Two dark bodies jumped against the dull shadows behind them, one twisting forward in a macabre dance, the other falling straight over from the side, like a tree axed by a woodsman. As the dust and smoke settled into the twilight, a figure ran toward the dancer. Its steps were awkward and fitful, as if following an unheard music score.
The camera view changed, zooming on the second body, closing in on the sand-colored motley of his uniform, the odd shapes of brown and yellow and tan blurring as the lens momentarily lost focus. The camera swirled, and then showed the ground, hard-pressed dirt and sand galloping by in an artistic effect, pitching in a way that made him slightly seasick, and seemed at the same time to weigh down on his back.
Finally the lens fell on a black boot stained with a spatter of blood brighter than the red of a spring poppy plant. It stayed there for a moment, drinking in the color and finely lined pattern, then moved to another spot of red, another perfect splotch, this one on a dull yellow and black fabric. The camera moved forward and the fabric was revealed to be an arm, the hand gripping something tightly, its long, slender fingers curled so tightly the small veins popped greenish-blue against the knuckles.
And then the camera moved back again, beginning a pan as its movement stopped; something fell slowly through the frame, another body, the same body the shot had begun with. The lens moved up and found a thick, pained face, creased with lines and the stubble of a day-old beard. The mouth moved with a groan or a curse; it was impossible to say.
“Green’s dead,” said Leteri, still huffing.
Turk was leaning over Winston. “Don’t talk, Sarge. Let me get this around your leg.”
Winston’s protest contorted into a groan as Turk pulled the bandage around the open wound. Bits of muscle and gore splayed out; Dixon saw what he thought was the thigh bone, white gray amid the sea of blood.
“He’s trying to tell you that was a stupid thing, running into the minefield,” Leteri told Dixon.
“If I only did smart things I wouldn’t be here,” said Dixon.
Turk rolled Winston onto his side. The back of his uniform was already dark with blood.
“We’re gonna have to look at this real careful,” said Turk.
Dixon realized the others were looking at him, expecting him to say something, even if it was the most obvious thing.
Which was?
“We’re exposed here,” Leteri said. “Let’s find some cover.”
“You think we ought to move him?” asked Turk.
The sergeant’s moans had faded into one continuous semi-screech. Dixon knelt next to him and gently placed his two fingers along the sergeant’s neck.
“Weak pulse, but with us,” Dixon said.
For a moment, the words jangled in his mind, reviving a memory of the last time he’d felt for someone’s pulse. It was his mother’s, nearly a year ago, and the result had been very different— he’d been feeling for himself, the last time, to make sure what the machines were saying, what the doctor and nurses were saying, was true, that she was dead.
“We shouldn’t move him, probably.” Dixon stood up quickly. “But we have to have better cover than this. Those rocks up there. Leteri, can you check them out? Mo, Staffa, scout the road and then cover us. Bobby and I will move the sergeant as gently as we can, once Leteri gives us the all clear.”
The men jumped into action. It was only later, after they set the sergeant down, that Dixon realized he had given orders and they’d followed them without question.
CHAPTER 25
They looked like Warthogs with tits.
Two five hundred gallon tanks, with elaborate air-drop chutes custom-welded around them, had been slapped to the number five and seven hard-points beneath the A-10As’ wings. The basic drop tanks had been borrowed from RAF Tornadoes— an accomplishment in itself, since as far as Doberman knew there were none at the base. Tinman had worked out the modifications himself, with help from Wong and Rosen. They were equipped with parachutes that worked off altimeter settings; apparently these included a pair of more-or-less-standard Special Ops chutes and three smaller drag “foils” from British bombs ordinarily used to crater runways.
Rosen had explained the mechanics of the chute-and-baffle system to Doberman, but the setup seemed as much of a marvel as the MRE A-Bomb was wolfing down. The bottom line was that she said it would all work.
Probably.
Wong seemed to agree. Which in itself made Doberman nervous.
“You really ought to try one of these MREs,” said A-Bomb. “This sole in vermouth with a touch of lemon— it’s what I’m talking about.”
“Sole in vermouth?” asked Rosen.
“Sorry, finished. I got lobster bisque with crabmeat and a squeeze of saffron left. You want it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You got to buddy up with the Special Ops guys if you want decent grub,” said A-Bomb, opening the plastic packet and pouring it into a drab green cup. “They got connections.”