‘Everybody back to the treeline!’ Hadley ordered.
‘What about the core sample?’ asked the lieutenant who led the team with the drill.
Tuck the core sample!’ Hadley replied. ‘We’re outta here! Call for a medevac. Ditch Jeter’s wet clothes and the drill in a drift. We’ll double-time it to the emergency pick-up zone.’
‘But our orders to…’ the lieutenant began to object. ‘Listen, West Point!’ Hadley shot back. ‘They wanta know how thick that ice is? Well, we got ’em their answer! Mission aborted!’
Clark pinned the new silver oak leaf cluster on Reed’s epaulets. He then shook Reed’s hand. ‘Congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel,’ Clark said. ‘You’ve earned that bird.’ There was applause from the gathering of staff. Reed was grinning. Clark had a call to make.
He went into his office and shut the door. He picked up the dedicated line, spoke to the Pentagon operator, and waited. ‘General Clark?’ finally came the voice of the man he was waiting for.
‘Mr President, I’ve given the action order. Operation Winter Harvest will be launched on April 14th — in two days.’
‘Wonderful!’ Davis said. ‘The timing couldn’t be any better from where I sit You give me five days of battlefield successes, and we’ll win that vote on the 19th. Then, we win the war.’
When they hung up, there was a knock on the door. It was Reed. He again looked sheepish. ‘I have a favor to ask, sir,’ he said without looking Clark’s way. ‘I’d like to get out into the field. Help out where I can. Even if it’s a staff position somewhere. I’d just like to… ’
‘I understand,’ Clark said. ‘But I need you, too.’ Reed wasn’t going to object. ‘We’ll keep our eyes open. Maybe something will come along.’ Reed nodded. ‘Now, let’s start issuing unit orders.’
‘Light duty’s over, fuck face.’ Stempel looked up from his computer. ‘Hey!’ he shouted at his squadmates, who crowded into the door of the supply bunker. He greeted them like long-lost friends. He’d been to the perimeter to visit his squad several times. But this was their first trip to the rear to see him. They exchanged high fives. Harold’s wounds had healed but he winced from habit. ‘You guys gettin’ some R and R or something?’ he asked.
‘Knock it off!’ an unseen NCO boomed through the open entrance to his office.
McAndrews grabbed his crotch and pulled. He then looked around at the bare sandbagged walls. ‘So you got heat in here too, huh?’
‘Yeah,’ Stempel replied, proudly showing off their electric space heater. ‘And they let us sleep here.’
‘This is too fine!’ Patterson said.
The master sergeant emerged. ‘What the hell’re you doin’?’ he shouted.
‘We come here to get Stemp,’ Patterson replied.
‘And who the hell sent you?’
‘The CO himself. Said he was takin’ Stemp off light duty and that we was to come’n get him.’
‘He can’t just up and yank one of my people outa here!’ the man snarled. ‘Shit! Who’s gonna log supplies in?’
Stempel’s squadmates looked at each other. ‘I will!’ several said at the same time.
The grumbling master sergeant went out in search of an officer. Stempel scrambled to gather his things. The visitors eyed Stempel’s laptop computer. On it glowed an inventory management program. They helped themselves to a six-pack of Diet coke they found in a rucksack.
‘Shit, man!’ Stempel objected. ‘Sarge is gonna tear you a new asshole if you take those!’
‘Fuck him!’ Patterson replied as he slipped two cans in his parka. ‘Let him hump his butt outta Club Med here and come find me.’
Music began to play from the sergeant’s office.
‘Jeeze!’ Stempel shouted. He ran toward the cramped room. Two of the guys were dancing to the country music on the master sergeant’s boom box. ‘What the…!’ Stempel shouted, then leapt for the ‘Stop’ button. The bunker fell quiet save for the laughter. ‘If he heard you usin’ up his batteries like that he’d kill you!’
Chavez’s M-16 rose instantly to his shoulder. Stempel stared down the 40-mm grenade launcher under its barrel from a distance of two feet. There was a grenade in the launcher’s chamber, and thirty rounds in the banana clip. ‘Born to Kill’ was scrawled on the man’s white cloth helmet cover. Chavez relaxed and pointed the weapon away. But the grin on the man’s face wasn’t reassuring. Everyone in the squad kept their distance from Chavez.
They hurried out of the bunker before the NCG returned. Stempel joined his squadmates in the fresh, cool air. The whine of jet engines was nearly constant. Giant C-17s had been landing for days. Their noise had become a part of the background.
‘Ain’t that just like a rear-area motherfucker,’ Patterson said. He grabbed Stempel’s bulging field pack and rocked him from side to side. ‘Got so much shit he can’t even hump it.’ They all descended on the overflowing pack.
‘Hey!’ Stempel shouted as they began to toss his things into the slush. ‘Come on!’ When his load was lighter, they headed down the communications trench toward the perimeter. Stempel collected a few of the essentials they’d discarded, but left most of the stuff where it lay. He hurried to catch up with the others, who walked single file down the narrow slit in the earth.
They passed into the wider security trench that ran alongside the runway. Transports offloaded huge crates of supplies. Stempel’s squadmates yelled taunts at the newly arrived airmen. ‘Welcome to Hell!’ one shouted. The Air Force shits wore ear protectors, but they took the oversized headphones off and walked over toward them. ‘You got any booze or pot?’ Patterson asked.
‘Yeah,’ one of the airmen replied, laughing. ‘Sure! What you got to trade?’
‘How ’bout a Chinese SKS? Got blood on it and everything! You can tell the folks back home you killed him yourself!’
The Air Force troops all stood around laughing. They’d obviously just flown in to help unload. In the day or so since Stempel had last been by, the airfield had become jam-packed with crates, fuel bladders, trucks and Humvees.
‘If you got a string of Chinese ears or noses or somethin’,’ came the reply from an airman, ‘I’ll get you a fifth of Scotch!’
Patterson wheeled to walk backwards and shouted, ‘I’ll get you a necklace of Chinese dicks for a fifth of Scotch, motherfucker!’ Everyone laughed. The airmen donned their ear protectors. A giant C-17 lumbered to the edge of the tarmac. ‘Who’s policin’ the wire this morning?’ Patterson asked.
‘They don’t got no fifth of fuckin’ Scotch!’ McAndrews replied derisively.
‘You heard the guy!’ Patterson shot back. There were snorts from some of the others. ‘No, really! They’re just lyin’ around out there. It’s not like they’re gonna use ’em again!’
‘Patterson, you are one sick motherfucker!’
When Patterson finally gave up on the possibility of a trade, Stempel asked, ‘Is there any news about reinforcements?’
‘Ain’t you heard?’ McAndrews said. ‘Man, Stemp’s gonna drop a load in his trousers when he hears this.’ There were chuckles.
‘What?’ Harold asked. The line of men halted. Their momentum bunched them up. Men rested against the walls of the trench. Stempel looked each man in the eye. They all in turn stared back. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ Stempel asked again.