upon themselves to author their own code of conduct. A hundred years ago, any army in the world would have taken a whip to such impudence. Twenty years ago, JAG would have fried some ass. But in the modern volunteer Army, it was allowed to be called a bottom-up initiative. Rule Six, they called it.
'I see no atrocity,' the colonel said. 'I see no Serbs at work. No human actor at all. It could be animals.'
'Goddammit, Bob.' They'd been through it a dozen times, though never in public this way.
'In the name of decency,' Chambers said, 'if we can't raise our sword against evil...' She heard the cliche coming together out of her own mouth and abandoned it.
'Look.' She started over. 'My people located Zulu Four, opened it, spent five valuable days excavating the top layer of bodies. That was before this goddam rain shut us down. This is by far the largest massacre site. There's at least another eight hundred bodies in there. So far, our documentation has been impeccable. The evidence that comes out of Zulu Four is going to convict the worst of the bad guys, if we can just finish the job. I'm not willing to see it all destroyed by goddam human wolverines. It's bad enough they engineered a massacre, but then to despoil the dead? It's your job to guard that site.'
'It is not our job,' said the colonel. 'Guarding graves is not our job.'
'Human rights depends –'
'Human rights is not our job.'
A burst of radio static eddied, became words, became silence.
'I see a grave settling beneath ten days of rain,' the colonel said. 'I see nature at work. Nothing more.'
'For once, let's be certain,' Chambers said. 'That's all I'm asking.'
'No.'
'One helicopter. One hour.'
'In this weather? At night? And look at the area, flooded with nitrogen.'
In a line, the six screens pulsed with electric coloration. Rest in peace, thought
Branch. But the bones shifted again.
'Right in front of our eyes...' muttered Christie.
Branch felt suddenly overwhelmed. It struck him as obscene that these dead men and boys should be cheated of their only concealment. Because of the awful way they had died, these dead were destined to be hauled back into the light by one party or another – if not by the Serbs, then by Chambers and her pack of hounds, perhaps over and over again. In this gruesome condition they would be seen by their mothers
and wives and sons and daughters and the sight would haunt their loved ones forever.
'I'll go,' he heard himself say.
When the colonel saw it was Branch who had spoken, his face collapsed. 'Major?' he said. Et tu?
In that instant, the universe revealed depths Branch had failed to estimate or even dream. For the first time he realized that he was a favorite son and that the colonel had hoped in his heart to hand on the division to him someday. Too late, Branch comprehended the magnitude of his betrayal.
Branch wondered what had made him do it. Like the colonel, he was a soldier's soldier. He knew the meaning of duty, cared for his men, understood war as a trade rather than a calling, shirked no hardship, and was as brave as wisdom and rank allowed. He had measured his shadow under foreign suns, had buried friends, taken wounds, caused grief among his enemies.
For all that, Branch did not see himself as a champion. He didn't believe in champions. The age was too complicated.
And yet he found himself, Elias Branch, advocating the proposition. 'Someone's got to start it,' he stated with awful self-consciousness.
'It,' monotoned the colonel.
Not quite sure even what he meant after all, Branch did not try to define himself.
'Sir,' he said, 'yes, sir.'
'You find this so necessary?'
'It's just that we have come so far.'
'I like to believe that, too. What is it you hope to accomplish, though?'
'Maybe,' said Branch, 'maybe this time we can look into their eyes.'
'And then?'
Branch felt naked and foolish and alone. 'Make them answer.'
'But their answer will be false,' said the colonel. 'It always is. What then?' Branch was confused.
'Make them quit, sir.' He swallowed.
Unbidden, Ramada came to Branch's rescue. 'With permission, sir,' he said. 'I'll volunteer to go with the major, sir.'
'And me,' said McDaniels.
From around the room, three other crews volunteered also. Without asking, Branch had himself an entire expeditionary force of gunships. It was a terrible deed, a show of support very close to patricide. Branch bowed his head.
In the great sigh that followed, Branch felt himself released forever from the old man's heart. It was a lonely freedom and he did not want it, but now it was his.
'Go, then,' spoke the colonel.
0410
Branch led low, lights doused, blades cleaving the foul ceiling. The other two Apaches prowled his wings, lupine, ferocious.
He gave the bird its head of steam: 145 kph. Get this thing over with. By dawn, flapjacks with bacon for his gang of paladins, some rack time for himself, then start it all over. Keeping the peace. Staying alive.
Branch guided them through the darkness by instruments he hated. As far as he was concerned, night-vision technology was an act of faith that did not deserve him. But tonight, with the sky empty of all but his platoon, and because the strange peril – this cloud of nitrogen – was invisible to the human eye, Branch chose to rely on what his flight helmet's target-acquisition monocle and the optics pod were displaying.
The seat screen and their monocles were showing a virtual Bosnia transmitted from base. There a software program called PowerScene was translating all the current
images of their area from satellites, maps, a Boeing 707 Night Stalker at high altitude, and daytime photos. The result was a 3-D simulation of almost real time. Ahead lay the Drina as it had been just moments before.
On their virtual map, Branch and Ramada would not arrive at Zulu Four until after they had actually arrived there. It took some getting used to. The 3-D visuals were so good, you wanted to believe in them. But the maps were never true maps of where you were going. They were only true to where you'd been, like a memory of your future.
Zulu Four lay ten klicks southeast of Kalejsia in the direction of Srebrenica and other killing fields bordering the Drina River. Much of the worst destruction was clustered along this river on the border of Serbia.
From the backseat of the gunship, Ramada murmured, 'Glory,' as it came into view. Branch flicked his attention from PowerScene to their real-time night scan. Up ahead, he saw what Ramada meant.
Zulu Four's dome of gases was crimson and forbidding. It was like biblical evidence of a crack in the cosmos. Closer still, the nitrogen had the appearance of a huge flower, petals curling beneath the nimbostratus canopy as gases hit the cold air and sheared down again. Even as they caught up with it, the deadly flower appeared on their PowerScene with a bank of unfolding information in LCD overprint. The scene shifted. Branch saw the satellite view of his Apaches just now arriving at where they had already passed. Good morning, Branch greeted his tardy image.
'You guys smell it? Over.' That would be McDaniels, the eight-o'clock shotgun.
'Smells like a bucket of Mr Clean.' Branch knew the voice: Teague, back in the rear pocket.
