were all afire now. Zel pulled hard to the right and shoved his boost control to maximum, soaring up to ten-thousand meters in little more than twenty seconds.
One Schlinal missile did climb into the sky, but it was a blind shot, and the missile's target acquisition circuits never achieved a lock on either of the invisible Wasps. Zel smiled as he turned toward the rendezvous.
—|—
It was a silent night until the Wasp raid on the Schlinal troops. Even the nervous soldiers on the Accord perimeter had rarely found any reason to let off a burst of wire. The soldiers of Echo Company, a dozen kilometers from the nearest enemy, heard the explosions as missiles hit their targets. The subsequent sound of strafing was almost inaudible at that distance.
Who's gettin' hit, us or them? Joe wondered. Several minutes elapsed before Max Maycroft relayed that information, during another of the company's brief halts. This one was somewhat longer than most had been, but Joe knew that they had made good time on the night march. There had been no interruptions, save for the encounter with the Jeomin family. Most particularly, there had been no firefights to slow them down and disclose their presence. Echo Company could afford to take ten or fifteen minutes this time.
"Max, how 'bout getting the captain to let us cycle out to the perimeter for a bit," Joe asked. "We need a change to keep these guys from falling asleep."
—|—
Joe felt his own alertness pick up once they started marching again. Second platoon was on the right flank now, and Joe's squad had the point—an inevitable assignment after Joe asked to get out on the edge. Every breath sounded loud in his ears now. His surroundings seemed to take on a new intensity, more than he could account for simply because he had turned on his exterior microphones to give him that extra hearing edge. Out on the flank, that was where any action was most likely to start.
Starting out, Joe had his fire team in front. Mort Jaiffer walked point, thirty meters ahead of anyone else. Kam Goff was behind Mort, and Joe was in the third position, the usual spot for the squad leader. Al Bergon was close behind Joe—too close. Joe had to caution him several times to hold his interval. Ezra's fire team was another thirty meters back. If the point walked into an ambush, it would be up to Ezra's team to come to their rescue, or provide covering fire until the rest of the platoon, or company, could get into the act.
Like many men who manage to survive—even thrive—in combat, Joe Baerclau had developed the ability to focus completely on his surroundings. On patrol, he sometimes fancied that he could even hear an insect breathing ten meters away. At other times, in garrison, where there was no danger—and mostly after he had drunk a cup or two—he might recall that when he was a child his mother had read him Bible stories, and used to tell him that not even a sparrow could fall in the forest without God knowing it. When he was stuck for an explanation of the way he tried to pay attention to every detail around him in the field, he sometimes fell back on that story for an analogy.
"I ain't sayin' I'm God," he would always hasten to add. He was not particularly religious, but he did not disbelieve . If there was a God, Joe did not want to offend Him... not as long as he was a soldier who might need divine help to get through the next campaign, or the next minute. "But I don't know no other way to put it. You got to hear the slightest sound, see the least little movement. That is, if you want the best chance to come out of it alive and in one piece." You do what you can, knowing that the time might come when even that won't be enough.
Second platoon had been on the flank for an hour and a half—past one break and halfway through the next leg of the march—when Mort called for a stop. "I heard something, Sarge," he reported over the radio, his voice little more than a whisper.
"What kind of
One Schlinal missile did climb into the sky, but it was a blind shot, and the missile's target acquisition circuits never achieved a lock on either of the invisible Wasps. Zel smiled as he turned toward the rendezvous.
—|—
It was a silent night until the Wasp raid on the Schlinal troops. Even the nervous soldiers on the Accord perimeter had rarely found any reason to let off a burst of wire. The soldiers of Echo Company, a dozen kilometers from the nearest enemy, heard the explosions as missiles hit their targets. The subsequent sound of strafing was almost inaudible at that distance.
Who's gettin' hit, us or them? Joe wondered. Several minutes elapsed before Max Maycroft relayed that information, during another of the company's brief halts. This one was somewhat longer than most had been, but Joe knew that they had made good time on the night march. There had been no interruptions, save for the encounter with the Jeomin family. Most particularly, there had been no firefights to slow them down and disclose their presence. Echo Company could afford to take ten or fifteen minutes this time.
"Max, how 'bout getting the captain to let us cycle out to the perimeter for a bit," Joe asked. "We need a change to keep these guys from falling asleep."
—|—
Joe felt his own alertness pick up once they started marching again. Second platoon was on the right flank now, and Joe's squad had the point—an inevitable assignment after Joe asked to get out on the edge. Every breath sounded loud in his ears now. His surroundings seemed to take on a new intensity, more than he could account for simply because he had turned on his exterior microphones to give him that extra hearing edge. Out on the flank, that was where any action was most likely to start.
Starting out, Joe had his fire team in front. Mort Jaiffer walked point, thirty meters ahead of anyone else. Kam Goff was behind Mort, and Joe was in the third position, the usual spot for the squad leader. Al Bergon was close behind Joe—too close. Joe had to caution him several times to hold his interval. Ezra's fire team was another thirty meters back. If the point walked into an ambush, it would be up to Ezra's team to come to their rescue, or provide covering fire until the rest of the platoon, or company, could get into the act.
Like many men who manage to survive—even thrive—in combat, Joe Baerclau had developed the ability to focus completely on his surroundings. On patrol, he sometimes fancied that he could even hear an insect breathing ten meters away. At other times, in garrison, where there was no danger—and mostly after he had drunk a cup or two—he might recall that when he was a child his mother had read him Bible stories, and used to tell him that not even a sparrow could fall in the forest without God knowing it. When he was stuck for an explanation of the way he tried to pay attention to every detail around him in the field, he sometimes fell back on that story for an analogy.
"I ain't sayin' I'm God," he would always hasten to add. He was not particularly religious, but he did not disbelieve . If there was a God, Joe did not want to offend Him... not as long as he was a soldier who might need divine help to get through the next campaign, or the next minute. "But I don't know no other way to put it. You got to hear the slightest sound, see the least little movement. That is, if you want the best chance to come out of it alive and in one piece." You do what you can, knowing that the time might come when even that won't be enough.
Second platoon had been on the flank for an hour and a half—past one break and halfway through the next leg of the march—when Mort called for a stop. "I heard something, Sarge," he reported over the radio, his voice little more than a whisper.
"What kind of
Similar Books
