The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  Yes, The smoke. Better smoke than fire. The smoke would even have been welcome, in a way.

  A sudden volley played an ashcan symphony on the side of the wreck.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," Meredith said.

  Yes, Taylor realized. Meredith was right. There was no more point to it. It had become an empty gesture. And it was only results that mattered.

  They would all be waiting for him. He knew that Krebs would never lift off without him. Even if it meant that everyone on board perished. And he did not want to be responsible for any more unnecessary deaths.

  A part of him still could not leave the site.

  Meredith fired two shots out into the blowing whiteness, then followed them with a third.

  "Come on, you bastards," he screamed.

  Meredith With his wife and a golden future waiting for him,

  "All right," Taylor said with sudden decisiveness He reached for the dead NCO and ripped off the man's microchip dog tag. "Let's give them another couple of rounds, then run like hell."

  "You got it," Meredith said.

  The two of them rose slightly and fired into the storm, wielding a rifle and a pistol hardly bigger than a man's hand against the menace of a continent.

  "Move," Taylor commanded.

  The two men ran sliding through the sodden snow that ringed the heat of the wreck. Meredith was well in the lead by the time they rounded the aft end of the downed M-100. He turned and raised his rifle again, covering Taylor

  "Goddammit just run," Taylor shouted.

  They took off on a straight line for the dark outline of the command ship. The big rotors churned the sky in readiness. The underlying rumble of the engine promised salvation.

  Krebs had seen them coming He had increased the power to the upended rotors and soon the noise was so loud that Taylor could no longer hear the rounds chasing him. Up ahead, the M-100 began to buck like an anxious horse Then Krebs steadied it again

  Taylor ran as hard as he could. I don't want to get shot in the goddamned back, he thought. Not in the goddamned back.

  The M-100 grew bigger and bigger, filling up Taylor s entire horizon.

  His lungs ached.

  "Come on," Meredith screamed at him.

  He hated to leave the bodies. There was enough guilt already. Enough for a long, long lifetime.

  Not in the back, he prayed, running the last few yards.

  He felt Meredith's arms dragging him up into the hatch.

  Krebs began lifting off before Meredith and Taylor could finish closing the hatch behind them. The ground faded away before their eyes. The universe swirled white. Then the hatch cover slammed back into place.

  The two men dropped exhaustedly onto their buttocks, cramped in the tiny gangway. They looked at each other wordlessly, each man assuring himself that the other had not been touched by the send-off bullets. They were both covered with grime and with the blood of other men, and Meredith's eyebrows and close-cropped hair bore a fringe of snow that made him look as though he had been gotten up for an old man's part in a high school play. As Taylor watched, the S-2 wiped at the melting snow with a hand that left a bloody smear in its wake.

  Taylor flexed his burned paw. Not too bad. Slap on a little ointment.

  The M-100 climbed into the sky.

  Taylor dropped his head back against the inner wall of the passageway, breathing deeply in an effort to purge his lungs of smoke and gas.

  "Aw, shit," he said.

  * * *

  They had to gain sufficient standoff distance before they could use the main armament to destroy the remainder of the wreck. The Gatling gun would never have penetrated the composite armor. While they were gaining altitude, Meredith gave Taylor the rest of the bad news. Of the soldiers carried out of the rear compartment, only the shocked boy and one evident concussion case were alive. The remainder of the light squad of dragoons had died, victims either of the impact or of smoke inhalation. The command M-100 bore a cargo of corpses down in its compact storage hold.

  "Goddamnit, Merry," Taylor said, "the ship shouldn't have gone down that hard. Just not supposed to. And the fire suppressant system's a worthless piece of shit."

  Meredith patted an inner panel of the aircraft with exaggerated affection. "We still don't know exactly what happened, sir. Could've been a computer malfunction. Anything. Overall, these babies have been pretty good to us today."

  The two men felt a quick pulse under the deck as Krebs delivered a high-velocity round that would shatter the wreck back on the ground beyond recognition.

  "Anyway, Merry," Taylor said, "thanks." He gestured with a blistered hand. "For back there."

  Meredith looked embarrassed.

  The two men sat just a few moments longer, drained, and heavy now with the knowledge that they both had to get back to work as though nothing had occurred. So much depended on them.

  "I wonder how Lucky Dave's doing," Meredith mused. He glanced at his watch. "First Squadron ought to be on the ground at Silver by now."

  * * *

  Noguchi trembled. He had never doubted his personal bravery, certain that he was somehow superior to average men with their average emotions. He had, until this hour, envisioned himself as a warrior with a marble heart, armored in a will of steel. But now, as he counted down the seconds before unleashing his weapons, his flying gloves clotted to his palms and his lower lip ticked as he counted to himself without realizing it. He fixed his eyes straight on, although the shield of his flight helmet would have prevented any of the crew members from seeing the uncertainty in them. He could not bear the thought that other men might scent the least fear in him.

  It was the weapons themselves that frightened him. The glorious kamikaze pilots of yesteryear had been faced with so clean a proposition: to die splendidly and suddenly for the emperor, for Japan. Dying held little terror for Noguchi, who envisioned it as the door to an uncomplicated nothingness. What frightened him was the condition in which he might have to live, if anything went wrong with the Scramblers.

  The counter stripped away the seconds.

  They had almost reached the optimal release point for the drones.

  And if something went wrong? If the Scramblers activated prematurely? If he was unable to turn his aircraft out of the Scramblers' reach with sufficient speed? If the effective range of the Scramblers proved even greater than projected? If ground control brought his aircraft back on the automatic flight controls, with a terrible cargo? There were so many ifs. The Scramblers had never even had a real field trial — it would have been impossible. And the experiments on animals could not be regarded as conclusive.

  The thought that the Scramblers might touch back at him, might caress him, their appointed master, with their power, left him physically unsteady and incapable of rigorous thought.

  He glanced again at the monitor. Within half an hour of touching down, the Americans' automatic camouflage systems had done a surprisingly good job of hiding the aircraft — even though it was evident that the mechanical measures had not been designed with the anomalies of a snow-covered landscape in mind. Of course, the Scramblers would affect everything over a huge area — but it was reassuring to know that the prime target was exactly where the transmissions had promised it would be.

  "Sir?" A sudden cry turned Noguchi's head. The voice was that of the copilot beside him, squeezed up the scale of fear.

  "What is it?" Noguchi asked savagely.

  The man's eyes were impossibly wide with fear.

  "It's time, it's time."

  Panic razored through Noguchi. But when he turned back to the instrumentation panel, he saw that there were still several seconds left. His copilot had lost control. Unforgivably. Like a woman or a child.

  "Shut up, you fool," Noguchi told him. But he did not look back at the man. He remained afraid that his face might reflect too much of the weakness revealed on his subordinate's features.

  Noguchi struggled to steady himself. But the mental images chal
lenged him again, attacking his last selfdiscipline with visions of the condition in which a faulty application of the Scramblers might leave him.

  No. No, he could not bear to live like that.

  A thousand times better to die.

  He locked his eyes on the digital counter, finger poised on the sensor control that would release the drones. Seven.

  All my life Six.

  I have been Five.

  aimed like an arrow

  Four.

  toward

  Three.

  this

  Two.

  moment.

  One.

  "Banzai," Noguchi screamed, tearing his throat.

  He touched the release sensor.

  "Banzai," he screamed again.

  "Banzai," his crew echoed through the intercom.

  He took personal control of the aircraft and banked as hard as he could.

  "Clean release," he heard in his helmet's tiny speakers. One by one, the other aircraft in his flight reported in. Clean release, clean release.

  Noguchi found his course and ordered all of the aircraft under his command to accelerate to the maximum. Behind them, the undersized drones sped quietly toward a place called Silver.

  * * *

  "Roger," Heifetz reported over the command net. "Everybody's tucked in. Assembly Areas Gold and Platinum report fully secure status. We have no systems losses. The Tango element took five KIA and eleven WIA during ground contact with an Iranian headquarters site, but I think you might want to get the details straight from him." Taylor's voice returned. He sounded unusually raspy and stressed to Heifetz. "Everything okay at your site?"

  "Basically. There was a small site-management problem. Part of Silver was already occupied by Soviet support troops. There's no coordination. Their system's gone to hell. One unit opened fire on us before we got it all sorted out."

  "Casualties?"

  "No. We were lucky. Now we have what they used to call 'peaceful coexistence.' "

  "Christ," Taylor said. "That's all we need. Gunfights with the Russians."

  "It's all right now. Tercus is putting his boys into good hide positions. He's very impressive."

  "All right. We should be at your location in approximately forty minutes," Taylor said. "I've got a probable heavy concussion casualty on board and another soldier in ambulatory shock. We'll need medical support when we come in."

  "Roger. We'll be waiting. Over."

  "Five-five out."

  Heifetz laid down the hand mike. Such a good day, he thought. It was bewildering how such a good day could be formed of so much death. A Jericho of steel, he said to himself, thinking of the Japanese-built war machine that had tumbled into ruin across the morning.

  It was enough for him. He had already made up his mind. He simply did not know how he was going to break the news to Taylor.

  He would finish the campaign. Then he would resign. He had squandered so much of his life in confusion, in self-deception, in the deep dishonor of the honorable man of mistaken purpose. He had been a good soldier, of course. In all of the outward respects. Now it was time to stop before he became a bad one.

  He was going to go home. To the new home his fellow refugees were building in the Israeli settlements in the American West. Turning yet another desert into a garden. He did not know exactly what he would do, or for what he might be qualified after so many years in arms. But he knew with iron certainty that he would manage. He was not afraid of a little dirt under his fingernails, if it came to that. And he did not need much.

  For an instant he regretted the years of salaries he had donated to the American-Israeli relief fund. Then he dismissed the consideration, ashamed of himself. It was better this way. To start clean. Without the false security that too much money insinuated into a man's soul.

  Perhaps there would even be a woman. He recognized now that Mira had never asked for his celibacy. No, he had wronged her that way too. She had been so much better than that. She would have wanted him to love again, to the meager extent of his abilities.

  All of his adult life had been spent doing the wrong thing, for the wrong reasons. He only hoped there was still time to put it right. He was going to allow himself to live again. And, this time, it truly would be for Mira. He would turn his face back toward the light.

  Heifetz picked up the helmet that he always wore in the field to set the right example for his subordinates.

  "I'm going outside to take a piss," he told his ops crew.

  The cold was beautifully clean, and he thought of Taylor. It would be good to see him at the end of such a day. Taylor was his closest semblance of a friend. He did not yet have the words to explain to Taylor about resigning, but that could wait. Taylor had to concentrate on other things now, and Heifetz was determined to help him as best he could. There were plenty of problems waiting to be resolved, especially with the loss of the last functioning weapons calibrator back at Omsk. But, somehow, he and Taylor would find solutions. Heifetz pictured himself beside Taylor, leaning over a map, shaping destiny with a marker pen. The two men did not even need words to understand each other.

  Heifetz tramped through the snow toward an undernourished-looking stand of trees. The white trunks and branches looked feminine and tubercular. It struck him that this country was poor in so many ways.

  His musings were interrupted by the sight of a startled young captain who had been squatting in a little snow-smoothed hollow. The captain had twisted over to clean himself above a display of steaming shit.

  The younger man straightened at the sight of Heifetz, discarding the smudged paper from his hand and grabbing for his distended coveralls.

  Heifetz could not help smiling. Life went on, after all.

  "At ease," Heifetz commanded. "Continue with your mission, captain."

  The young officer stammered something unintelligible, and Heifetz turned to urinate against the slender tilt of a tree trunk.

  A more distant voice called Heifetz by his rank and last name. There was no escape, not even for a moment. Heifetz glanced back toward his M-100 and saw one of the staff NCOs trotting bareheaded toward the little grove. Have to tell them to keep their damned helmets on when they come outside, Heifetz thought. Like children. After combat, the natural tendency was to over-relax. To drop your guard and decline into slovenliness.

  Heifetz shook himself vigorously, then tucked the cold-tightened bit of flesh back into his uniform. Too long unused for its higher purpose, he teased himself.

  The NCO hurried toward him, hopping through the snow.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Heifetz, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Reno's on the net. He says he's got to talk to you personally."

  Heifetz nodded in weary acquiescence. Then he turned to the ambushed captain, who was hurriedly doing up his uniform.

  "You know what the biggest problem is with the U.S. Army?" Heifetz asked. The captain had the sort of wholesome, handsome features Heifetz had come to associate with a peculiarly American invulnerability to intellect. After a moment's rumination, the captain resettled the web belt around his athlete's waist and said nervously, "No, sir."

  "We talk too much," Heifetz said. But he could see from the captain's features that the triteness of the observation had disappointed the younger man, who apparently had expected a revelation of far deeper profundity.

  "We talk too much," Heifetz repeated. He smiled gently and turned back toward his place of duty.

  * * *

  Captain Jack Sturgis couldn't believe it. He had actually seen Lucky Dave Heifetz smile. He wondered if he would ever be able to convince his friends of what he had seen.

  He began to reconstruct the tale in his head. He immediately discarded the bit about his physical situation during the incident. Then he reconsidered, and modified his role into the more manly one of fellow-pisser-on-nearby-tree. How exactly had Heifetz put it? About the Army's biggest problem? Pretty dumb, really. Nothing much to it. Sturgis poked at Heifetz's words for some hidden meaning: "W
e talk too much." Did he mean, like, too much talk and not enough action? Or just too much talk, period?

  Goddamn, though. There he was, with Lucky Dave Heifetz. The man who had never been known to crack a smile, the cradle-to-grave soldier. And the old bugger comes through with this big toothy grin.

  He wished he had a witness. Then he recalled the more personal details of the encounter and decided that he was glad there had been no witness, after all.

  Maybe Heifetz had just been laughing at him?

  Naw. Old Lucky Dave had seen plenty of guys taking a dump before. No, it probably meant that things had gone really well. That they had really torn the enemy a new asshole.

  Yeah. Now that could be tied into the tale very nicely. "Even old Lucky Dave was happy. Should've seen it, guys. Smiling. Bigtime."

  Lucky Dave Heifetz, the terror of the regiment. The guy who was reported never to have felt a single human emotion in his life.

  Sturgis had been disconcerted by the unexpected appearance of a second party during his evacuation procedures — and Lucky Dave, of all people. All things considered, however, he figured it was worth it. For the tale he would have to tell. And for the reassurance Heifetz's good mood had given him.

  They had met the enemy — and knocked their dicks in the mud.

  He had been worried, of course. He had never been in combat before, and he had read lots of war novels and seen plenty of movies and heard how tough it all was from the veterans. They said you never knew who was going to break down and turn out to be a pussy.

  Well, now he knew. He was no pussy. He had what it took proven in battle. As he trudged back toward the camouflaged position of his M-100, Jack Sturgis luxuriated in visions of a great military career. Someday he might even be as famous as the old man, Colonel Taylor. Or even more famous. He had no intentions of becoming disfigured, however. He didn't want to look like Taylor. Sturgis cast himself in a far more romantic light, and no vision of success was complete without a complementary vision of well-disposed women.

  Sturgis took a deep breath. It was a wonderful thing to be a soldier. To be a real combat leader.

  A snowflake caught at the corner of the young man's eye. He paused to wipe it away, touching a gloved hand to his shying eyelash.