“We need to call down an air strike,” Kline said. “This is the perfect moment to hit them.”
Paul didn’t say anything to that. He watched the masses of men running away from the flashes on the horizon. The enemy soldiers were doing a bunk, all right. Let them run, was his feeling.
“He is right,” Romo told Paul.
“Yeah?” asked Paul.
“They are scared now,” Romo said, “and out in the open. In time, they will regain their courage and their sanity. Now they are easy targets for a napalm strike.”
Paul stared at Romo. Like him, the man lay chest-first on the snow, looking like a white-armored version of the old Iron Man movies. Paul could well imagine Romo lifting a palm and firing a magnetic repulser ray. With these suit heaters, they could lie in the snow all day. Too bad they couldn’t fly.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cold-hearted bastard?” Paul asked his friend.
“I have heard it said, yes,” Romo replied.
Paul had a bad taste in his mouth. Despite that, he knew Romo was right. With his suit, he radioed in to SOCOM HQ. He told them what he saw and requested an air strike.
“Can you pinpoint their location?” the operator asked.
“Yes,” Paul said, feeling even more dispirited than before.
Romo had his laser rangefinder and locator out. He aimed it at the mass of running soldiers and fired an invisible beam.
“We have target acquisition,” the operator said. “The drones will be in position in three minutes.”
Paul muttered a reply, and then he waited.
“Do not feel bad,” Romo told him. “Those soldiers running down there, they raped your women and killed civilians this summer. If you let them live, they will do it again later. The time to kill a wolf is when he is running away, not when he is full of fight.”
Paul thought about the little girl with red shoes hanging from a tree. Venezuelans might have done that.
“War’s a dirty business,” he said.
“We are good at it,” Romo said. “It is why we see so many evil things. Others in our position, they would be dead by now.”
“I guess so,” Paul said.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kline asked. “This is our job.”
Paul didn’t answer as he waited for the inevitable. A few minutes later, American heavy drones appeared. They roared low over the fleeing soldiers.
Paul could swear he heard groans, the mass sound of frightened men looking up at their doom.
Napalm canisters tumbled from the bellies of the fast-flying drones. The canisters hit the snow and sheets of flame appeared, roaring into life. The napalm roasted hundreds. More canisters tumbled toward the fleeing and now screaming mass of humanity.
Paul watched the slaughter. He didn’t know if they were conscripts or volunteers. The Brazilians ran the show in the South American Federation. The Venezuelan soldiers down there were paying for Brazilian misdeeds. They were paying the butcher’s bill in roasted flesh.
The napalm fires roared across the plain. Thousands of twisting, flopping humans became living torches. It was nauseating, but Paul supposed Romo was right. The sooner they killed enough enemies, the sooner this war would be over. What did it matter how it happened?
Maybe my time for soldiering is up. I want to defend my country, sure. I don’t want to butcher fellow human beings like this anymore, though.
“Let’s go,” Paul said, as he climbed to his feet.
On the formerly snowy plains in the distance, the napalm fires raged unchecked. Black smoke billowed skyward. Was Romo right? Had those same soldiers butchered innocent American civilians?
Yeah, he’s right. I have to believe it. He has to be for them to deserve that.
Paul left deep tracks in the snow. These suits were great except for one thing: they were heavy. Heavy wasn’t good for wading through snowdrifts.
Soon enough, Paul climbed onto his snowmobile and used a gloved thumb on the starter. The engine turned over and revved into life.
“You guys ready?” he asked over the radio.
Two positive answers sounded in his helmet. Paul twisted the throttle and the small machine lurched forward. He listened to it whine as he plowed through this lonely land. There were folds in the terrain and hidden rivers and gullies. He kept it at fifteen miles per hour. That was slow going, but at night like this, it made sense to be careful. They kept the headlights off and used their night vision visors.
After two miles, Romo spoke. “Where’s Kline?”
Paul glanced back. A glimmer of dawn broke on the eastern horizon. The American guns still flashed and boomed to the north. He saw Romo on his snowmobile, but there was no sign of Sergeant Kline.
“What happened to him?” Paul asked.
Romo shook his head.
“Sergeant Kline,” Paul said over the radio. He didn’t get an answer. “We can’t leave him out here.”
“Si,” Romo said.
Paul twisted the throttle and turned around. In the glimmer of dawn, they backtracked. A half mile later, they found him. Kline had strayed off the path following Paul and Romo. That was against regulations. They went single file so the enemy wouldn’t know how many of them were out there. Kline hadn’t gone too wide, but wide enough.
The soldier lay at the bottom of a gully. His machine had broken through a crust of snow hiding a narrow ravine. The sergeant lay on his stomach at the bottom with his head through some ice.
With a sick feeling, Paul climbed down the ravine. He slipped and slid, bumping his way down until his heavy boots cracked through the ice and hit underwater rocks.
He cursed, and he dragged Kline out of the icy stream. He unbuckled the helmet. Water flowed out as he removed it.
“How is he?” Romo asked from the upper bank.
Paul took off his helmet. It was freezing down here in the shadows of the gully. He checked for broken bones. The neck seemed good, but the man didn’t breathe.
Paul gave him mouth to mouth. He unsnapped the man’s body armor, pushed on the chest and hammered against the heart with his fist. Nothing helped. Sergeant Kline was dead. He must have drowned to death.
“What a stupid way to die,” Romo said.
Paul glared up at his blood bother. Would Romo have preferred to burn to death like the unlucky Venezuelans?
“Help me carry him to my machine,” Paul said.
Romo took his time answering.
“I don’t know how the Apaches did it,” Paul said, “but we’re not leaving his corpse for the enemy.”
“No,” Romo said. “You are right.”
It took work, and Paul panted by the time he reached his snowmobile. He tied the body to the back. What a worthless war. The Chinese, the Brazilians and their proxies—they should have all stayed home.
“You know what I think,” Paul said.
“Only some of the time,” Romo said.
“We have to make it hard and bloody and show everyone you don’t mess with the United States of America. This was a stupid way to die. You were right about that.”
“You are glad now we burned the Venezuelans?”
Paul stared north. “I didn’t start this war. All I know is that I’m going to do whatever it takes to finish it.”
“Si,” Romo said. “We will finish it.”
The two men roared away on their snowmobiles, heading for the pickup point.
Colonel Higgins sat in the commander’s seat of his Behemoth tank. Computer screens faced him on three sides. A soft blue light glowed in the compartment. Outside, snow swirled, reducing visibility but doing nothing to slow the assault.