The younger man turned obediently.
Noburu held out the aide's forgotten rifle.
"Sir," Akiro said. Noburu could feel his aide blushing through the dark.
"And, Akiro. Above all, Colonel Takahara is to safeguard the computer."
"Sir."
Noburu watched the younger man's back as Akiro scooted across the helipad. Yes. The computer. There were some things about it that even Takahara did not know. Aspects of the machine's capabilities that were known only to full generals and a handful of technicians back in Tokyo. The main military computer system, Noburu considered, resembled a wealthy man's beautiful wife — possessed of a secret that could destroy the man whose bed she shared.
Suddenly the chanting stopped. The silence was painful. Dizzying. Then Noburu registered the aural detritus of the attack — the unmistakable sound of badly wounded men who had not had the good fortune to lose consciousness.
An enormous howl erupted from the world beyond the wall. The chanting was over — this was simply a huge, wordless wail. It was the biggest sound Noburu had ever heard.
"Here they come," Kloete screamed.
A section of the perimeter wall disappeared in fire and dust. The blast wave tipped Noburu backward with the force of a typhoon wind.
"Fire into the smoke, fire into the smoke."
A smaller blast shook the floor beneath them. Grenade launcher, Noburu realized. Either they had stolen it, or rebel regulars had joined the mob's ranks.
The first shrieking figures left the pall of smoke. Someone inside the compound ignited a crossfire of headlamps and spotlights to help the machine gunners, and more flares lit the sky. But the flares were perceptibly fewer this time, and most of the light was provided by the section of the city that had begun to bum in the background.
Waves of dark figures swarmed through the gate and rushed through the broken wall. The volume of defending fire seemed to hush under the weight of the storm, overcome by the screaming energy of the mob. More banners trailed, falling and then rising again, as the attackers clambered over the ridges of the dead.
Kloete raised himself so that he could angle the machine gun into the oncoming tide.
The South African NCO to Noburu's side crumpled and stretched himself back across the helipad. In falling, his fingertips just grazed Noburu's cheek, drawing the general's attention after them. The South African lay with his face shot away, lower jaw tom nearly all the way off. He somehow continued to give off moans that were almost words.
Kloete wheeled about, eyes demonic. He took one close, hard look at his subordinate, unceremoniously drew his pistol, and shot the man where once the bridge of his nose must have been. The NCO twitched and then lay still.
The South African colonel met Noburu's eyes and evidently mistook what he saw there for disapproval.
"It's that kind of situation," Kloete said.
Noburu nodded, then automatically took up the dead man's rifle and leaned over the ledge. As he took aim, he saw the first hint of individual features on the darting shadows. They were very close. The war was coming to him.
Noburu opened fire. The kick of the weapon was instantly familiar, even after decades of wielding only a ceremonial pistol. He aimed carefully, remaining in the singleshot mode, trying to buy value for each round spent.
The Azeris fell in waves. But each next wave splashed closer.
A ripple of close-in blasts caught the forwardmost attackers. Noburu felt a blow on the side of his head. But, whatever it was, it was of no consequence. He remained upright, sentient, firing.
"Banzai."
A wave of high-pitched Japanese shouts broke over the cries of the attackers. The sound of close automatic weapons increased to a blurred roar.
"Banzai."
In the dying firelight, Noburu saw his men charging into the oncoming mass of Azeris. The Japanese fired as they ran, and Noburu caught the glint of fixed bayonets. A miniature sun lit up in the courtyard. Noburu recognized Colonel Takahara at the forward edge of the charge, samurai sword raised overhead, its blade wielding the power of light. With his left hand, Takahara fired a sidearm.
"Banzai."
The leading tentacles of the mob began to retract at the unexpected counterattack. Noburu fired beyond the ragged line of his men, helping as best he could. He knew his days of gallant charges were behind him. But he would do what remained to him.
"Fucking Japs," he heard the surviving South African NCO say. It was half a complaint, half admiration. "They're just as crazy as the wogs."
Noburu saw a fallen Azeri rise suddenly and fire point-blank into Takahara's stomach. The staff officer fell backward, staggering. It seemed to Noburu that Takahara was less concerned with staying on his feet than he was with holding the sword aloft. Its blade shone unblooded. Then another burst punched Takahara to the ground. The sword shimmered and disappeared amid the litter of corpses. Noburu held his rifle up to fire, but another Japanese beat him to his prey, bayoneting the man who had shot Takahara. The soldier remembered his bayonet drill well enough, planting a foot on his victim’s back and twisting out his rifle.
The assault faded away, leaving two-dozen Japanese upright in the courtyard, firing across the parade ground toward the main gate and the breach in the wall. A last flare helped them, and Noburu realized that he had never seen so much death so close at hand. The broad space between the headquarters building and the main gate writhed like a snake pit with the wounded. But, when you looked closely, you saw a great ragged stillness around the hurt, waiting to accept them all. A man could have walked from the headquarters entrance to the main gate by stepping from corpse to corpse, without ever touching concrete or cobbles.
A Japanese voice commanded a return to the headquarters building defenses. On the way, the men pawed over the fallen, checking for ammunition with which to continue the fight. The smell of gunpowder burned in Noburu’s nose like dried pepper.
"Jesus Christ," a voice said. Noburu turned and saw the ammunition handler bent over the cavity of his comrade’s skull.
Kloete lit another cigarette, then offered the open pack to Noburu.
"I don’t smoke," Noburu said.
The South African nodded as though he understood perfectly.
"Good show, that," Kloete said. He spoke the anglicized phrase with his mudlike accent. "Your boys, I mean."
"Yes."
"Christ. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig."
Noburu did not understand.
"The side of your head," Kloete said, raising a hand partway to indicate the location of the wound. The man’s fingers stank of spent cartridges.
Noburu remembered the blow on the side of his head. And now, magically, he could feel the blood oozing warmlyfrom the wound, losing temperature as it wandered down his neck. He did not need to test the wound with his land.
"It's of no consequence," he said.
"You'll need to have that seen to," Kloete said firmly.
But Noburu no longer cared. He realized that he had been relieved, almost overjoyed by the attack. Toward the end he had not needed to think of anything else. The dream warrior was smiling.
"It's of no consequence whatsoever," Noburu said truthfully.
Colonel Johnny Tooth, United States Air Force, was a happy man. The four big WHITE LIGHT electronic warfare birds under his immediate control were on station and functioning perfectly, exactly twenty-four hours late.
But lateness was a relative thing. The goddamned nearsighted Army ground-pounders didn't understand that you could not risk expensive aircraft and their crews in hopelessly bad weather. Technically speaking, of course, he was a little behind schedule — but his aircraft had made it into the war after a direct supersonic flight from the States and they were performing flawlessly, jamming an enormous swathe from the Caucasus east across Soviet Central Asia and northern Iran. There wasn't going to be any chitchat down on the ground tonight.