take away the Army's coffee and its morale would plummet, with battle-hardened NCOs lurching groggy-eyed toward suicide.
'Sounds great,' Martinez said. 'Let me just talk to the old man.' He pulled off his cap and adjusted the headset. 'What the hell's my call sigh again?' he asked himself out loud, scanning the cheat sheet the comms NCO had affixed to the interior of the fuselage. He found the alphanumeric, shaking his head at the ease with which it had slipped his mind.
'Sierra five-five, this is Sierra seven-three. Over.'
All around him, the logistics and liaison nets crackled. He was just about to transmit again, when Taylor's miniaturized voice told him.
'Wait, Seven-three.'
The old man was working another net. Martinez imagined how it must be at the moment for Taylor and Meredith, the amphetamine excitement of working the command and control system as the regiment neared combat. Then the thrill and danger of combat itself. Martinez both envied his comrades the excitement and shamed himself with the thought of their greater risks and responsibilities. He knew how essential a properly functioning support system was, before, during, and, especially immediately after combat. But he could not help feeling that the others were doing the real work.
In the background, he heard a squadron S-4 reporting his subunit's fuel account status over the voice link. The report could have been handled more efficiently through the digital circuit. But Martinez understood that the other man was experiencing the same feeling of inadequacy as he was feeling himself. The desire to do something, to make a personal contribution. it was hard not to be out there within the sound of the guns.
'Sierra seven-three, this is Sierra five-five. Over.'
Taylor. The sudden voice in his headset startled Martinez, just as an NCO put a gorgeously hot mug of coffee into his hands. Martinez caught the mug and wrapped both palms around its nearly scalding warmth, then keyed the mike with his voice:
'Sierra seven-three. Over.'
'Status report. Over.'
'Support operation on schedule,' Martinez said. All of the fuelers and the carryalls are under way. I've only got one WIG and one Mike-100 left here with me. Over,' There was a brief silence that Martinez did not quite understand, then Taylor's voice returned. Martinez could hear the exasperation hiding behind the studiedly calm inflection.
'You mean you're still at the initial site? Over.
'Roger. I've just got a skeleton crew of mechanics with me. We're still working on three-eight. Chief Malloy thinks we can get her back up.'
Another pause. Then: 'What's your estimated time of departure?'
'As soon as we get three-eight back up. We're all ready to go, except for that. I've got the operational calibrator on the WIG with me. I'll oversee its displacement. We're in good shape. When the squadrons close on their follow-on sites, we'll be waiting for them. Over.'
'Manny,' Taylor's voice came earnestly over the secure net, 'don't fuck around. I know you're trying to do the right thing. But, if you can't get three-eight back up, just blow it in place. I want every last trace of an American presence out of there by dawn. We've got to keep the bad guys guessing. And I don't want to do anything to compromise the Russian security plan. Those guys have done a good job. Besides, some goddamned Jap space system might have picked us up moving out of there. You need to get moving. Over.'
'Roger. We're almost done.' Martinez knew in his heart that they could get three-eight into good enough shape to follow the WIG under its own power. He intended to bring Taylor the M-100 as a prize, to show that the support troops, too, could do their part. 'See you at Platinum. Over.'
'Don't wait too long to get out of there,' Taylor's voice warned him. The tone of admonition was softer, almost fatherly now. 'Blow that bird if you can't get her up. And good luck. Out.'
Martinez tugged off the headset, then put the cup of warm liquid to his chapped lips. It was odd. You were supposedly conditioned to do your duty to the country, to the Army. But he could not help feeling that his most important duty was to Taylor. He did not want to let the old man down.
Sipping the coffee, steeling himself to go back out into the cold darkness that lay between midnight and the sensible hours, he thought of a brilliant spring day in Mexico. They had been over in the Orientale on a special mission, and everything had gone well. No blood spilled. Just a dirty white flag and rebels throwing their weapons out into the street. After the last of their quarry had been gathered in, Taylor turned to Meredith and Martinez and said, 'What the hell. Let's go for a ride, boys.' And they had ridden up through the first pale green to where the rocks began, with Martinez struggling to stay on his horse. They followed an ancient, barely discernible trail up to a high canyon, where there was a well and a ruined shack. They tied the horses in the shade and climbed on foot to the nearest peak. And an odd thing happened. No one said a word. They just sat down in the sharp air and stared out over a brown world jeweled here and there with greenery, and the clear blue sky felt as soothing as a mother's hand. Taylor seemed to have forgotten all about his companions. His devil's face pointed off into the distance.
It was as if he had commanded the two younger men to hold their peace, to simply accept the world as it was. And Martinez's eyes opened. Nothing ever looked as beautiful to him again as that bare, thirsty landscape. The world was unspeakably beautiful when you finally shut your mouth and sat down and let yourself see. Time grew inconstant, as irregular as the breezes that whisked around the mountaintop and disappeared. When Martinez glanced at Taylor, the older man's eyes were closed, and he looked uncharacteristically peaceful. Even the scars on his face did not seem so pronounced, as if they had softened into his skin, tired of chastening his life. It was as if Taylor belonged on that peak, the way the broken stones belonged. A white scorpion scuffled its way through the rocks as Martinez watched peacefully, knowing it was not going to hurt them. There was no reason to hurt anyone or anything that day. Everything belonged just as it was. While the high cool air carried off the last of the sweat that made your shirt so heavy.
Then it was time to go. In order to make it back down to the village while there was still enough light. Taylor just stood up without a word and they all stumbled down to the horses, belatedly sharing a canteen of sour water. Martinez had hoped that there would be more days like that. But a week later, they were involved in a dirty little bloodbath. and after that there were other things to think about.
15
'Ruby minus ten minutes,' the copilot said.
'Roger,' Heifetz responded. 'Combat systems check.' He glanced down at the control panel. 'Weapons suite?'
'Green.'
'Target acquisition suite?'
'Green.'
'Active countermeasures suite?'
'Green.'
'Go to environments check.'
'Roger,' the copilot said.
Throughout the regiment, Heifetz knew, other combat crews were running through the same drill. Making sure. One last time.
The environments check took them through the range of visual 'environments' in which they could choose to fight. The forward windscreens also served as monitors. The first test simply allowed the crew to look out through the transparent composite material the way a man looked through a window. Outside, the night raced with snow, the big flakes hurrying toward the aircraft at a dizzying speed.
'Better and better,' the copilot remarked. The storm meant that even old-fashioned visually aimed systems on the ground would have added difficulty spotting their attackers
