“Something’s coming ” Dalton said as he carefully snuffed the cigarette out and put the remains in his pocket. He swiveled around on his knees and peered over the barrier toward the jungle.
“You don’t need to see ’em,” Dunnigan said. “We ’ll be hearing them first.” He gripped Dalton’s shoulder. “Listen.”
Dalton held his breath, just as he’d been taught when getting ready to fire his rifle. There was a very low roar, an engine running. Dalton’s first thought was that it was the camp’s generator, but then he realized it was of a deeper pitch and coming from outside the perimeter.
Dunnigan was on the hand-cranked phone, calling the mortar pit. “I need illumination. West side. Over the treeline.”
“Tanks?” Dalton asked as he hung up the phone.
“Damn straight, laddie. Didn’t you feel ’em moving up earlier?”
Dalton looked at the other man. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why Dunnigan was in the pit this late in the evening. “Feel them?”
“You live long enough, you’ll know.” Dunnigan’s head was cocked listening for the sound of the 4.2-inch mortar on the north side of the camp to fire. “Sometimes I wonder, though, if it isn’t you know, and you’ll live long enough.”
Dalton was still puzzling over that when they heard the heavy thump of the camp’s four-deuce mortar. Seconds later a flare burst high overhead, illuminating the western side of the camp.
“High explosive, load!” Dunnigan was looking down the barrel of the 106-millimeter, aiming it.
Dalton grabbed a round out of its cardboard container and slid it in the back of the rifle, shutting the trap on it. Only then did he look where the other man was aiming.
Four PT-76 tanks were rumbling out of the treeline and heading straight for the wire. They weren’t top-of-the-line battle tanks, but rather armored reconnaissance vehicles built by the Soviet Union, with a 76-millimeter gun mounted on top in a small turret. Still, coming straight at him, the tanks more than impressed Dalton.
The recoilless rifle spit flame. A burst of fire on the front slope of one of the tanks was followed immediately by a secondary explosion, popping the turret off.
“H.E., load!”
Dalton fell into the rhythm, loading as fast as Dunnigan fired. They flamed a second tank as four more came out of the trees. By the time Dunnigan had fired for the fifth time, the lead tank was in the wire, less than fifty feet away. It paused, the 76-millimeter gun in the turret turning in their direction.
Dalton felt like time was suspended as he slid a fresh round into the rear of the rifle and locked it down. Dunnigan had his
eye pressed up against the aiming scope. Both guns fired at the same time.
A shock wave hit Dalton in the chest, knocking him back. The sandbags in the front of the pit had taken the impact of the N VA round, and all that remained was a large divot in their protective barrier. The PT-76 that had fired was in flames.
A hand slapped Dalton on the back, bringing his attention back into the pit.
“H.E. Load!” Dunnigan was mouthing the words but Dalton couldn’t hear anything other than a loud ringing in his ears.
He slid a round in but everything suddenly went dark other than the burning tanks as the flare expired. Dalton could see tracer rounds flying by overhead and he knew that one of the tanks was firing its coaxial machine gun at them.
Dalton shook his head trying to clear the ringing. Dunnigan was on the phone, screaming for more illumination.
Dalton saw figures running, silhouetted by the last tank they’d hit. He suddenly realized they were sappers in the wire. He threw his M-16 to his shoulder and fired, finger pulling back on the trigger smoothly, aiming quickly, not able to tell if he was hitting anyone, there were so many. His finger pulled and there was no recoil. Dalton’s training took over as he pushed the button on the side of the magazine well, letting the empty one fall out. He pulled a fresh one out of his pouch and slammed it home.
Another flare burst overhead. Dunnigan had his shoulder into the recoilless rifle. Dalton stopped firing long enough to scan the area. There were three tanks bearing down on their pit. He could see the blinking flashes on the side of the turrets— their co-ax machine guns. And all three were pointed straight at him and Dunnigan. In front of them, Dalton saw sandbags being torn apart by the machine-gun bullets.
Dunnigan fired. The shell skidded off the deck of the lead tank. Then there was a bright flash of light and Dalton felt his breath get sucked out of his lungs as he was lifted into the air and then slammed into the ground on his back. He struggled for air, his brain momentarily not functioning, and then his lungs worked again.
Dalton opened his eyes and saw a bright shining candle. A flare, high overhead, slowly drifting down under its parachute. Dalton sat up, surprisingly unhurt, it appeared. He looked about the pit. The recoilless rifle was smashed, the barrel bent. Dunnigan was sitting against the rear of the pit, his chest covered in red from a jet of blood pulsing out of his neck. Dalton scooted over to him, ripping the bandage out of the case on his web gear.
He pressed down on the severed artery, and the white gauze was immediately soaked through with the deep red of blood coming straight from the heart and lungs. “Hang in there!” Dalton yelled, unable to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. “You ’re gonna be all right!”
Dunnigan’s eyes went wide and Dalton knew there was someone behind him, but he also knew that if he stopped the pressure Dunnigan was dead.
Dalton felt the bayonet puncture his lower back, like a sliver of freezing cold entering his body. He arched forward, reacting even as his mind forced his hands to keep the pressure on Dunnigan’s wound. Dalton turned his head to the left, just in time to see the stock of an AK-47 heading straight for his face.
There was a flash of bright light, then there was only darkness.
Dalton looked down. His hands were clenching the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He forced his fingers to let go. Slowly he let go of the memories of Vietnam. He cleared his mind and passed into an uneasy slumber.
Feteror’s demon avatar slowly materialized as he stalked down the empty corridor. The dull glow of the dim night lighting in the building rippled through his form, the sound of his claws on the tile floor a low clicking noise echoing into silence. He paused at a door. He reached down. It was locked.
His form disappeared as he reentered the virtual plane and flowed through the thick steel, coming out the other side and reforming on the real plane. The room was lit with the glow of a dozen screensaver programs. Feteror walked to the center console. He reached out a long claw and carefully tapped on the keyboard, accessing the program he wanted.
It had taken him two months to get the code word he needed to enter the GRU classified database. Two months of hovering unseen on the virtual plane in the background at various GRU sites, waiting for someone to log on in front of him.
The screen cleared and the main menu came up. Feteror’s right arm dematerialized as he reached forward, sliding it through the screen and directly into the computer. He could sense the inner workings and tapped directly into the mainframe. Suddenly his entire form disappeared and he flowed into the computer. He raced through the inner workings, a shadow passing on the border between the real world and virtual until he found what he was looking for. He absorbed the information, imprinting a copy into his own psyche. The data was encrypted, but that wasn’t a problem— he could always get Zivon to help break the code.