"Yes, sir," the captain said. Kozlov glanced again at the man's name tape: PARKER. They had been introduced the night before. But there were so many new names to remember. Ryder, for instance, the scared young man with the briefcase, sitting quietly at the back of the compartment. And there were so many unfamiliar details. It occurred to Kozlov that the cardinal feeling of men at war was not fear or excitement, neither cowardice nor courage, but simply weariness. It seemed to him that he had been tired for as long as he could remember. Perhaps that was why commanders were able to drive their men to achieve results at such suicidal costs: the men simply grew too tired to care what became of them.
"I want good dispersion on the ground," Taylor said. "The refuelers can shuttle around when they get here. And everybody deploys their camouflage before they so much as take a piss."
"Just the autocamouflage?" Meredith asked.
Taylor pursed his lips, then agreed. "Yeah. It's a tradeoff. But we need to be ready to move fast. And let's put these babies down a few clicks to the south so we don't have those fat boys coming in right on top of us. We'll guide them to the birds after we get them under positive control."
The captain named Parker was already transmitting orders to the troop of five M-l00s accompanying the American commander on his raid. They were marvelous fighting machines. Kozlov knew he should be making more of an effort to note the details of their operation so he would be able to file a complete report upon his return. But he was just so tired.
Colonel Taylor turned his back and squeezed into the passageway that led forward to the pilot's cabin. Kozlov was relieved, both because of the temporary respite from further questions and embarrassments, and because he still found it hard to look at the man. The stress of the past few days had etched the remnants of disease ever more deeply into the American's skin, further exaggerating his deformity, until Taylor reminded Kozlov of a devil.
Muffled engines shrieked beyond the walls of the control compartment and the fighting machine began its descent toward the Russian earth.
The wind blew from the south, but it was cold. Racing down from the high Iranian desert, then chilling itself as it skimmed over the Caspian Sea, the wind struck land with a force that narrowed the eyes. The M-l00s were so well stabilized that you did not get a proper sense of the intensity of the gusts when you were inside. But here, where the dead, colorless grass stretched from horizon to horizon, there was nothing to interfere with the wind's progress. It was a worthless, defenseless place, no matter which way you pointed yourself.
Taylor looked at his watch, then looked at the sky.
Nothing.
The afternoon continued to wither.
He could not bear the thought that it might end like this. After all the years of longing for a chance to strike back at the enemy who always lurked behind his country's enemies. After the fighting and the losses, the frantic planning and the experience of seeing a president backed against the wall, it was unbearable to think that it would all simply sputter out in a wasteland, for want of fuel.
He knew this would be the end, and he could not understand why none of the others seemed to grasp it. A failure now, on this day, in this place, would settle the order of the world for a generation. Or longer. His country would withdraw into its tattered hemisphere, and the Japanese would get what they had wanted for so long.
He tried to keep his personal prejudices out of the equation. But it was very hard. He blamed the Japanese. He could not help it. He wanted more than anything else in the world to face them one last time with a weapon in his hand.
He took off his helmet, and the wind pried at his matted hair. He thought of Daisy and smiled bitterly. He could not believe he had been so foolish as to imagine that there was anything real there. No woman, no matter her tarnish, was about to bind her life to his. No, he was good for one thing and one thing only: soldiering. The rest of it was an idle dream.
Surely, it could not end here. When they had come so close. He scanned the empty sky.
A voice feinted at his ear before the wind carried it off. He turned. Merry Meredith was coming toward him. Behind the intelligence officer, the M-100 merely looked like a natural blemish on the landscape. The automatic camouflage system had unfolded its fans, and the sensors read the tones of the earth, coloring the upper plates to match. The system was effective in every environment except snow. The plates could not go white and had to compromise on a mottled gray. But here, where the withered steppe remained naked to the wind, the camouflage worked magically. An enemy would have needed to know exactly where to look to find him and his men.
All this. The technology and the trying. The magic. And the sacrifice. Surely, it could not just end like this.
Meredith closed the distance. His skin was taut with cold, but his eyes had the old fire.
"Sir?" Meredith asked.
"What's up, Merry?"
"I've got an idea. Maybe you won't like it. But it's all I can come up with."
"About what?"
"The mission. There's a way we can still do it. Without the extra fuel."
"How?"
"Well, given that we don't have enough fuel to hit Baku and make it back to secure Soviet territory…"
"Given," Taylor agreed.
"Okay. Then where else could we go? After we hit Baku?"
Taylor looked questioningly at the younger man. Meredith's expression was that of an excited boy.
"What about Turkey?" the S-2 asked. "Okay, we don't have the legs to get back. So we just keep going. I've calculated the distance. We can just barely make it. Head west out of Baku, right across Armenia, and put down inside the Turkish border. Turkey's remained neutral— the fundamentalist movement's an old nightmare there— and the Turks will obey international law. We'll have to scuttle the ships as soon as we set down. But at least we can accomplish the mission. They'll intern us until the end of hostilities — but so what? We'll at least get to strike a blow instead of going home with our tails between our legs…"
It was beautiful. And so simple. Taylor realized he would never have thought of it himself. He was too old, too well-conditioned. You had to bring your unit back to friendly lines. No matter what. Yet, history was full of examples of forces that had been thrust by circumstances onto neutral territory. The procedures were regulated by international codes.
And if he and his men missed the rest of the war? Well, if they didn't do it, there wouldn't be any war left to fight.
Taylor stared off to the south, imagining the sea rolling just beyond the horizon and the rest of the world beyond the sea.
"The State Department's going to hate it," Taylor said softly, as if a credentialed ambassador might be within earshot. But he was smiling. "What the hell. I've always wanted to see Turkey."
He held out his hand to the younger man.
Suddenly, a massive explosion colored the near horizon. The blast wave did not take long to reach them. Hot, rushing air pushed the southern wind aside. The noise, despite the distance of several kilometers, was deafening. The impact had been to the north, exactly where the Soviet fuelers had been designated to link up with the M-l00s.
A second blast quickly followed the first.
"Ambush," Taylor shouted. "It's a fucking ambush. The Russians sold us out."
The two men ran for the M-100.
Ryder had been standing just outside the rear ramp of the aircraft, relieving himself. As Taylor and Meredith ran toward him, the young man stood dumbfounded, watching the inferno spread across the rear horizon, penis in hand as though he intended to use it to put the fire out.