"They've found that dead guard." The radio sergeant adjusted his earphones. "Seem pretty stirred up about it."
Falkenberg looked at his watch. There was a good hour before sunrise. "Took them long enough."
"Pity Fuller couldn't guide that chopper in the dark," Jeremy Savage said.
"Yes. Sergeant Major, ask Captain Frazer to ready his men, and have your trail ambush party alerted."
"Sir."
"I have a good feeling about this one, John Christian." Savage tapped his pipe against the heel of his boot. "A good feeling."
"Hope you're right, Jeremy. Fuller doesn't believe it will work."
"No, but he knows this is her best chance. He's steady enough now. Realistic assessment of probabilities. Holding up well, all things considered."
"For a married man." Married men make the kinds of promises no man can keep, Falkenberg thought. His lips twitched slightly at the memory, and for a moment Grace's smile loomed in the darkness of the jungle outside. "Sergeant Major, have the chopper teams get into their armor."
"Is it always like this?" Mark said. He sat in the left hand seat of the helicopter. Unlike fixed wing craft, the right hand seat is the command pilot's position in a helicopter.
Body armor and helmet were an unfamiliar weight, and he sweated inside the thick clothing. The phones in his helmet crackled with commands meant for others. Outside the helmet there were sounds of firing. Captain Frazer's assault had started a quarter of an hour before; now there was a faint reddish gray glow in the eastern skies over the jungle.
Lieutenant Bates grinned and wiggled the control stick. "Usually it's worse. We'll get her out, Fuller. You just put us next to the right cave."
"I'll do that, but it won't work."
"Sure it will."
"You don't need to cheer me up, Bates."
"I don't?" Bates grinned again. He was not much older than Mark. "Maybe I need cheering up. I'm always scared about now."
"Really? You don't look it."
"All we're expected to do. Not look it." He thumbed the mike button. "Chief, everything set back there?"
"Aye-aye, sir."
The chatter in Mark's helmet grew still. A voice said "Missiles away." Seconds later a new and sterner voice said "All helicopters, start your engines. I say again, start engines."
"That's us," Bates reached for the starting controls and the turbines whined. "Not very much light."
"Helicopters, report when ready."
"Ready aye-aye," Bates said.
"Aye-aye?" Mark asked.
"We're an old CD Marine regiment," Bates said. "Lot of us, anyway. Stayed with the old man when the Senate disbanded his regiment."
"You don't look old enough."
"Me? Not hardly. This was Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion long before I came aboard."
"Why? Why join mercenaries?"
Bates shrugged. "I like being part of the regiment. The pay's good. What's the matter, don't you think the work's worth doing?"
"Lift off. Begin helicopter assault."
Lift-off aye-aye." The turbine whine increased and the ship lifted in a rising, looping circle. Bates took the right hand position in the three-craft formation.
Mark could dimly see the green below, and the visibility increased every minute. Now he could make out the shapes of small clearings among the endless green marshes.
"You take her," Bates said. His hands hovered over the controls, ready to take his darling away from this stranger.
Mark grasped the unfamiliar stick. It was different from the family machine he'd learned on, but the principles were the same. The chopper was not much more than a big airborne truck, and he'd driven one of those on a vacation in the Yukon. The Canadian lakes seemed endlessly far away, in time as well as in space.
Flying came back easily. He remembered the wild stunts he'd tried when he was first licensed. Once a group from his school had gone on a picnic to San Miguel Island and Mark had landed in a cove, dropping onto a narrow, inaccessible beach between high cliffs during a windstorm. It had been stupid, but wildly exciting. After that, they always let him drive when they wanted to do something unusual. Good practice for this, he thought. And I'm scared stiff, and what do I do after this is over? Will Falkenberg turn me in? They'll sell me to a mining company. Or worse.
There were low hills ahead, dull brown in the early morning light. Men huddled in the rocky areas. Some lay sprawled, victims of the bomblets released by the first salvo of rockets. Gatlings in the compartment behind Mark crackled like frying bacon. The shots were impossibly close together, like a steady stream of noise. The helicopter raked the Free State. The small slugs sent chips flying from the rocks. The other choppers opened up, and six tracer streams twisted in crazy patterns intertwining like some courtship dance.
Men and women died on that flinty ground. They lay in broken heaps, red blood staining the dirt around them, exactly like a scene on tri-v. It's not fake, Mark thought. They won't get up when the cameras go away. Did they deserve this? Does anyone?
Then he was too busy piloting the helicopter to think about anything else. The area in front of the cave was small, very small—would the rotors clear it? A strong gust from the sea struck them and the chopper rocked dangerously.
"Watch her—" Whatever Bates had intended to say, he never finished it. He slumped forward over the stick, held just above it by his shoulder straps. Something wet and sticky splashed across Mark's left hand and arm. Brains. A large slug had come angling upward to hit Bates in the jaw, then ricochet around in his helmet. The young lieutenant had almost no face. Get her down, Mark chanted, easy baby, down you go, level now, here's another gust, easy baby. . . .
Men poured out of the descending chopper. Mark had time to be surprised: they jumped down and ran into the cave even as their friends fell around them.
Then something stabbed Mark's left arm, and he saw neat holes in the Plexiglas windscreen in front of him. The men went into the cave. They were faceless in their big helmets, identical robots moving forward or falling in heaps. . . .
Lord God, they're magnificent. I've got to get this thing down! Suddenly it was the most important thing in his life. Get down and get out, go into the cave with those men. Find Juanita, yes, of course, but go with them, do something for myself because I want to do it—
"Bates, stop wasting time and get to green A-one urgent."
God damn it! Mark fumbled with the communications gear. "Bates is dead. This is Fuller. I'm putting the chopper down."
The voice in the phones changed. Someone else spoke. "Are the troops still aboard?"
"No. They're off."
"Then take that craft to Green A-one immediately."
"My—my wife's in there!"
The colonel's aware of that." Jeremy Savage's voice was calm. "That machine is required, and now."
"But—"
"Fuller, this regiment has risked a great deal for those hostages. The requirement is urgent. Or do you seriously suppose you would be much use inside?"
Oh, Christ! There was firing inside the cave, and someone was screaming. I want to kill him, Mark thought. Kill that blond-haired bastard. I want to watch him die. A babble filled the helmet phones. Crisp commands and reports were jumbled together as a background noise. Frazer's voice. "We're pinned. I'm sending them back to A-one as fast as I can."
There was more firing from inside the cave.
"Aye-aye," Mark said. He gunned the engine and lifted out in a whirling loop to confuse the ground fire. Someone was still aboard; the Gatlings chattered and their bright streams raked the rocks around the open area below.
Where was Green A-one? Mark glanced at the screen in front of the control stick. There was gray and white matter, and bright red blood in a long smear across the glass surface. Mark had to lift Bates's head to get a bearing. More blood ran across his fingers, and something warm trickled down his left arm.
Then the area was ahead, a clear depression surrounded by hills and rocks. Men lay around the top of the bowl. A mortar team worked mechanically, dropping the shells down the tube, leaning back, lifting, dropping another. There were bright flashes everywhere. Mark dropped into the bowl and the flashes vanished. There were sounds; gunfire, and the whump! whump! of the mortar. A squad rushed over and began loading wounded men into the machine. Then the sergeant waved him off, and Mark raced for the rear area where the surgeon waited. Another helicopter passed, headed into the combat area.
The medics off-loaded the men.
"Stand by, Fuller, we'll get another pilot over there," Savage's calm voice said in the phones.
"No, I'll keep it. I know the way."
There was a pause. "Right. Get to it, then."
"Aye-aye, sir."
The entrance to the boss's cave was cool, and the surgeon had moved the field hospital there. A steady stream of men came out of the depths of the cave: prisoners carrying their own dead, and Falkenberg's men carrying their comrades. The Free State dead were piled in heaps near the cliff edge. When they were identified, they were tossed over the side. The regiment's dead were carried to a cleared area, where they lay covered. Armed soldiers guarded the corpses.
Do the dead give a damn? Mark wondered. Why should they? What's the point of all the ceremony over dead mercenaries? He looked back at the still figure on the bed. She seemed small and helpless, and her breath rasped in her throat. An IV unit dripped endlessly.
"She'll live."
Mark turned to see the regimental surgeon.
"We couldn't save the baby, but there's no reason she can't have more."
"What happened to her?" Mark demanded.
The surgeon shrugged. "Bullet in the lower abdomen. Ours, theirs, who knows? Jacketed slug, it didn't do a lot of damage. The colonel wants to see you, Fuller. And you can't do any good here." The surgeon took him by the elbow and ushered him out into the steaming daylight. "That way."
There were more work parties in the open space outside. Prisoners were still carrying away dead men. Insects buzzed around dark red stains on the flinty rocks. They look so dead, Mark thought. So damned dead. Somewhere a woman was crying.
Falkenberg sat with his officers under an open tent in the clearing. There was another man with them, a prisoner under guard. "So they took you alive," Mark said.
"I seem to have survived. They killed George." The boss's lips curled in a sneer. "And you helped them. Fine way to thank us for taking you in."
"Taking us in! You raped—"
"How do you know it was rape?" the boss demanded. "Not that you were any great help, were you? You're no damned good, Fuller. Your help didn't make a damned bit of difference. Has anything you ever did made any difference?"
"That will do, Chambliss," Falkenberg said.
"Sure. You're in charge now, Colonel. Well, you beat us, so you give the orders. We're pretty much alike, you and me."
"Possibly," Falkenberg said. "Corporal, take Chambliss to the guard area. And make certain he does not escape."
"Sir." The troopers gestured with their rifles. The boss walked ahead of them. He seemed to be leading them.
"What will happen to him?" Mark asked.
"We will turn him over to the governor. I expect he'll hang. The problem, Fuller, is what to do with you. You were of some help to us, and I don't like unpaid debts."
"What choices do I have?" Mark asked.
Falkenberg shrugged. "We could give you a mount and weapons. It is a long journey to the farmlands in the south, but once there, you could probably avoid recapture. Probably. If that is not attractive, we could put in a good word with the governor."
"Which would get me what?"
"At the least he would agree to forget about your escape and persuade your patron not to prosecute for theft of animals and weapons."
"But I'd be back under sentence. A slave again. What happens to Juanita?"
"The regiment will take care of her."
"What the hell does that mean?" Mark demanded.
Falkenberg's expression did not change. Mark could not tell what the colonel was thinking. "I mean, Fuller, that is unlikely that the troops would approve turning her over to the governor. She can stay with us until her apprenticeship has expired."
Emotions raged through him. Mark opened his mouth, then bit off the words. So you're no better than the boss!
"What Colonel Falkenberg means," Major Savage said, "is that she will be permitted to stay with us as long as she wishes. We don't lack for women, and there are other differences between us and your Free State. Colonel Falkenberg commands a regiment. He does not rule a mob."
"Sure. What if she wants to come with me?"
"Then we will see that she does. When she recovers," Savage said. "That will be her choice. Now what is it you want to do? We don't have all day."
What do I want to do? Lord God, I want to go home, but that's not possible. Dirt farmer, fugitive forever. Or slave for at least two more years. "You haven't given me a very pleasant set of alternatives."
"You had fewer when you came here," Savage said.
A party of prisoners was herded toward the tent. They stood looking nervously at the seated officers, while their guards stood at ease with their weapons. Mark licked his lips. "I heard you were enlisting some of the Free Staters."
Falkenberg nodded. "A few. Not many."
"Could you use a helicopter pilot?"
Major Savage chuckled. "Told you he'd ask, John Christian."
"He was steady enough this morning," Captain Frazer said. "And we do need pilots."
"Do you know what you're getting into?" Falkenberg asked. "Soldiers are not slaves, but they must obey orders. All of them."
"Slaves have to obey, too."
"It's five years," Major Savage said. "And we track down deserters."
"Yes, sir." Mark looked at each of the officers in turn. They sat impassively. They said nothing; they did not look at each other, but they belonged to each other. And to their men. Mark remembered the clubs that children in his neighborhood had formed. Belonging to them had been important, although he could never have said why.
"You see the regiment as merely another unpleasant alternative," Falkenberg said. "If it is never more than that, it will not be enough."
"He came for us, colonel," Frazer said. "He didn't have to."
"I take it you are sponsoring him."
"Yes, sir."
"Very well," Falkenberg said. "I doubt, Mister Fuller, if you realize just how you have been honored. Sergeant Major, is he acceptable to the men?"
"No objections, sir."
"Jeremy?"
"No objection, John Christian."
"Adjutant?"
"I've got his records, Colonel," Captain Fast indicated the console readout. "He'd make a terrible enlisted man."
"But not necessarily a terrible aviation officer?"
"No, sir. He scores out high enough. But I've got my doubts about his motivations."
"Yes. But we do not generally worry about men's motives. We only require that they act like soldiers. Are you objecting, Amos?"
"No, Colonel."
"Then that's that. Fuller, you will be on trial. It will not be the easiest experience of your life. Men earn their way into this regiment." He smiled suddenly. "The lot of a junior warrant officer is not always enviable."
"Yes, sir."
"You may go. There will be a formal swearing in when we return to our own camp. And doubtless Captain Fast will need information for his data base. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Mark left the command tent. The times are out of joint, he thought. Is that the right line? Whatever. Does anyone control his own life? I couldn't. The police, the Marines, the boss, now these mercenaries—they tell us all what to do. Who tells them?
Now I'm one of them. Mercenary soldier. It sounds ugly, but I don't have any choices at all. It's no career. Just a way out of slavery.
And yet—
He remembered the morning's combat and felt guilty at the memory. He had felt alive then. Men and women died all around him, but he'd felt more alive than he'd ever been.
He passed the graves. The honor guard stood at rigid attention, ignoring the buzzing insects, ignoring everything around them as they stood over the banner-draped figures laid out in neat rows. I'm one of them now, he thought, but whether he meant the guards or the corpses he couldn't say.