"Chief," Taylor called forward through the intercom, "can you take them out?"
"Too close for the big gun," Krebs answered. "We'll have to go in on them with the Gat. Going manual. Hold on, everybody."
"Five-five Mike," Taylor called to the other escort M-100. "You've got the sky. We're going in—"
A sudden swoop of the aircraft tossed him backward against the opposite control panel.
The wrong voice answered Taylor's call. It was the downed pilot. Still alive after all.
"This is Five-five Echo. Can anybody hear me? Can you hear me? We're taking fire. We're taking hostile fire. I've got some banged-up troopers in the back. We're taking fire."
"Mike, wait," Taylor told the net. "We hear you, Echo. Hang on. We're on the way."
In response, the M-100 turned hard, unbalancing both Taylor and Meredith this time.
"Come on," Hank Parker said to the monitor, as if cheering on a football team in a game's desperate moment.
"I'm going forward," Taylor said, and he pushed quickly through the hatchway that led toward the cockpit, bruising himself as the aircraft dropped and rolled.
By the time Taylor dropped into his pilot's seat, Krebs had already opened up with the Gatling gun. It was the first time all day they had used the lighter, close-fighting weapon.
"I've got the flight controls," Taylor told Krebs. "Just take care of the gunnery."
"Roger." The old warrant officer unleashed another burst of fire. "Good old weapon, the Gat. Almost left them off these babies. Damned glad we didn't."
Down in the snowy wastes, two enemy vehicles were burning. The others began to reverse their courses, heading back for the cover of the blasted village. Taylor manhandled the M-100 around so that Krebs could engage a third armored vehicle. Then he turned the aircraft hard toward the downed bird.
"Echo, this is Sierra," Taylor called. "Still with me?"
"Roger," a frantic voice cried in the headset. "I've got casualties. I've got casualties. "
"Take it easy. We're coming."
"My ship's all fucked," the voice complained, its tone slightly unreal. "We'll never get her off the ground." Taylor, having had the privilege of an overhead view of the wreckage, was startled that the pilot had given even a moment's thought to attempting to get airborne again. Battle reactions were never fully rational, never truly predictable.
"No problem, Echo," Taylor said. He passed manual control of the aircraft back to Krebs so that he could concentrate on calming the downed pilot, steering him toward rational behavior. "No problem. You've done just fine. Just take it easy. We're coming down to get you out of there. Break. Five-five Mike, you watching the sky for us?"
"Roger. All clear."
"Okay. Have your copilot keep an eye on the ground, just in case our little friends try another rush from the village. Break. Echo, can you get your crew and the dragoons out of the aircraft? If so, rig your ship to blow."
"I can't," the voice came back, nearly hysterical. "What's the problem?"
"My legs, my legs."
"What's the matter with your legs?"
"I think they're broken."
Taylor fought with all his might against flickering visions from an earlier time, of earlier wrecks, in a land that had never seen snow.
"Can your copilot get things going?"
Silence. Then:
"He's dead."
Taylor closed his eyes. Then he spoke in a beautifully controlled voice:
"Echo, this is Sierra. Just take it easy. We'll have you out of there before you know it. Try to think as clearly as you can. Now tell me. Is anybody fully capable in the dismount compartment?"
"I don't know," the pilot answered. His voice had calmed a little, and the tone was almost rational. "The intercom's out, and I can't move. Oh, my God. We've got a fire. We've got a fire."
"Flapper, get us the hell down there," Taylor barked. The injured pilot had lost all control of himself now. "Oh, God," he pleaded to the radio, "please don't let me burn. Please don't let me burn."
"Just hold on," Taylor said, trying to remain controlled himself. "We're almost there."
"Please… please…"
"What about your fire suppression system?" Taylor demanded. "Can you operate it manually?"
"I can't move. Can’t. Please. Oh, God, I don t want to burn. Don't let me burn."
As it descended the M-100 turned so that Taylor could see the wreck again. It was very close now. And there was, indeed, a fire. In the forward fuselage, where the pilot’s exit hatch was located.
Then Taylor saw one hopeful sign. At the rear of the downed M-100, a soldier was on his feet. He had already lain two of his comrades in the snow, and he was headed back inside the burning aircraft.
Taylor’s ship settled, and he lost sight of everything in the white-out of blown snow.
"Echo," Taylor called. "We’re on the ground. We're coming to get you."
" — burning—" The voice of an agonized child.
The M-100 had not yet made its peace with the ground, but Taylor leapt from his seat, scrambling back toward the exterior hatch.
"Stay with the bird," he ordered Krebs.
Taylor’s shoulder holster snagged briefly on a metal projection He tore it loose and bent to wrestle with the dual levers that secured the hatch. The covering popped outward and slid to the side with a pneumatic hiss.
A rush of cold air struck Taylor’s face. He dropped into the snow and it fluffed well above his ankles. The noise of the M-100 was overpowering on the outside, but he nonetheless began to shout at the dark form lugging bodies through the snow a football field away.
"Move them further off. Get them further away."
The distant soldier did not respond. Unhearing in the wind and the big cloud of engine noise. Meredith came up on Taylor’s left, followed by one of the NCOs from the ops center. Together, the three men ran stumbling through the snow, the NCO carrying an automatic rifle at the ready and glancing from side to side.
A billow of fire rose from the central fuselage of the downed craft.
"Jesus Christ," Taylor swore.
The NCO slipped in the snow at his side, then recovered. Up ahead, the soldier involved in rescuing his comrades paid them no attention whatsoever. He drew another body from the burning machine.
Taylor ran as hard as his lungs and the snow would allow. Even though he had left the comms net far behind, he still imagined that he could hear the pleas of the trapped pilot.
From somewhere off to the right, behind the veil of the snowstorm, weapons began to sound — hard flat reports against the whine of the M-100 waiting behind Taylor's back. Small arms. The enemy were coming dismounted this time. There would be no obvious targets for the escort bird flying cover.
Meredith was quick, with a quarterback's agility, and he reached the rear of the downed bird ahead of the others. He was shouting at the soldier, even as he tried to help the man with his human burden.
More firing.
Taylor and the NCO came up beside Meredith and the rescuer. On the verge of speech, Taylor was silenced by the sight of the boy's face. Bruised and swollen, the expression was nonetheless strikingly clear. The boy was in shock. He was dragging his comrades out of the wreck automatically, conditioned to the task. But he had no real consciousness of anything around him.