dioxide through photosynthesis beneath miniature artificial suns. Terrestrial botany was a specialty he had never studied. Few did. The broad, bright greeitleaves
above him sagged beneath the weight of accumulated snow. Aldridge knelt beside him. “What do you think, Jason? Take ‘em?” Aldridge’s remark brought Darkwood’s mind back to the situation at hand. And he momentarily regretted that because he wanted to remember the taste of snow, the feel of it.
“Yeah.But quietly if we can, Sam. We’ve got them outnumbered, but a firefight could turn that equation inside out real quick.” Here in the highlands of the island, it actually was like some Paradise, like what the protestors insisted the entire surface of the Earth was within the Temperate Zones.
“I assume you want somebody to talk,” Sam Aldridge continued.
“Yeah, that’d be nice, Sam—and I don’t feel like having them activate those self-destruct charges they carry on their bodies and taking us with them. Rifle butts and fists, knives if you have to. And don’t forget about me.”
Sam Aldridge grinned at him and nodded…
With Aldridge and four other Marines, the rest of the force waiting a hundred yards farther up the trail, Jason Darkwood slipped into the foliage overlooking the trail from the highground, waiting. There was a joke that had been going around ever since it was first discovered five centuries ago that the Soviet Union had a base beneath the Pacific Ocean as well, a base considerably larger, more technologically advanced (at the time), and better populated: One American can lick any dozen of the Commies. Darkwood imagined the joke was really older than five centuries, but surprisingly the joke became an operational principle. With more men at his disposal, why had Sam Aldridge only asked for four volunteers (everyone volunteered and
Aldridge took his pick) and left the remainder of the men under his Sergeant. Still more bizarre, Darkwood had said nothing, simply gone along as one of the six. Six Americans, five of them Marines, versus six Soviet Marine Special Forces personnel was taking unfair advantage—if you believed in the joke.
Three of the Marines moved up a dozen yards or so along the trail, Aldridge and Lance Corporal Lannigan staying in position beside Darkwood, flanking him. The palms of Darkwood’s hands sweated inside his gloves as he grasped the AKM-96 more tightly.
Six against six, or seventy-two lying in ambush for six—if you believed the joke.
He peered between two snow-laden leaves, the sounds of snow crunching under the booted feet of the Marine Spetznas detail. He’d read in books about the sounds of snow crunching under boots, not noticed the sound beneath his own boots or those of Aldridge’s Marines, noticed the sounds now. He could see the face of the lead man, not necessarily the leader because of his position in the file, but obviously the leader because of his rank. He was a Sergeant.
The remaining five men were younger, not as experienced-looking, not as tough-looking either. Sam Aldridge tapped Darkwood on the shoulder, pointed toward the Sergeant, then tapped himself on the chest and nodded. Darkwood shrugged his shoulders and eyebrows. If Sam Aldridge felt he had to brace the toughest-looking one of the six, good for him.
Coming.
They didn’t seem to like each other, either that or they were tremendously disciplined, each man’s face set in a neutral expression, no idle chatter, no laughter.
Jason Darkwood looked at Sam Aldridge, figuring Aldridge would take the lead, make the first move since his chosen target was the man to get. Aldridge flexed
Aldridge took his pick) and left the remainder of the men under his Sergeant. Still more bizarre, Darkwood had said nothing, simply gone along as one of the six. Six Americans, five of them Marines, versus six Soviet Marine Special Forces personnel was taking unfair advantage—if you believed in the joke.
Three of the Marines moved up a
above him sagged beneath the weight of accumulated snow. Aldridge knelt beside him. “What do you think, Jason? Take ‘em?” Aldridge’s remark brought Darkwood’s mind back to the situation at hand. And he momentarily regretted that because he wanted to remember the taste of snow, the feel of it.
“Yeah.But quietly if we can, Sam. We’ve got them outnumbered, but a firefight could turn that equation inside out real quick.” Here in the highlands of the island, it actually was like some Paradise, like what the protestors insisted the entire surface of the Earth was within the Temperate Zones.
“I assume you want somebody to talk,” Sam Aldridge continued.
“Yeah, that’d be nice, Sam—and I don’t feel like having them activate those self-destruct charges they carry on their bodies and taking us with them. Rifle butts and fists, knives if you have to. And don’t forget about me.”
Sam Aldridge grinned at him and nodded…
With Aldridge and four other Marines, the rest of the force waiting a hundred yards farther up the trail, Jason Darkwood slipped into the foliage overlooking the trail from the highground, waiting. There was a joke that had been going around ever since it was first discovered five centuries ago that the Soviet Union had a base beneath the Pacific Ocean as well, a base considerably larger, more technologically advanced (at the time), and better populated: One American can lick any dozen of the Commies. Darkwood imagined the joke was really older than five centuries, but surprisingly the joke became an operational principle. With more men at his disposal, why had Sam Aldridge only asked for four volunteers (everyone volunteered and
Aldridge took his pick) and left the remainder of the men under his Sergeant. Still more bizarre, Darkwood had said nothing, simply gone along as one of the six. Six Americans, five of them Marines, versus six Soviet Marine Special Forces personnel was taking unfair advantage—if you believed in the joke.
Three of the Marines moved up a dozen yards or so along the trail, Aldridge and Lance Corporal Lannigan staying in position beside Darkwood, flanking him. The palms of Darkwood’s hands sweated inside his gloves as he grasped the AKM-96 more tightly.
Six against six, or seventy-two lying in ambush for six—if you believed the joke.
He peered between two snow-laden leaves, the sounds of snow crunching under the booted feet of the Marine Spetznas detail. He’d read in books about the sounds of snow crunching under boots, not noticed the sound beneath his own boots or those of Aldridge’s Marines, noticed the sounds now. He could see the face of the lead man, not necessarily the leader because of his position in the file, but obviously the leader because of his rank. He was a Sergeant.
The remaining five men were younger, not as experienced-looking, not as tough-looking either. Sam Aldridge tapped Darkwood on the shoulder, pointed toward the Sergeant, then tapped himself on the chest and nodded. Darkwood shrugged his shoulders and eyebrows. If Sam Aldridge felt he had to brace the toughest-looking one of the six, good for him.
Coming.
They didn’t seem to like each other, either that or they were tremendously disciplined, each man’s face set in a neutral expression, no idle chatter, no laughter.
Jason Darkwood looked at Sam Aldridge, figuring Aldridge would take the lead, make the first move since his chosen target was the man to get. Aldridge flexed
Aldridge took his pick) and left the remainder of the men under his Sergeant. Still more bizarre, Darkwood had said nothing, simply gone along as one of the six. Six Americans, five of them Marines, versus six Soviet Marine Special Forces personnel was taking unfair advantage—if you believed in the joke.
Three of the Marines moved up a
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