The War in 2020

Just take it easy. We're coming down to get you out of there. Break. Five-five Mike, you watching the sky for us?'

'Roger. All clear.'

'Okay. Have your copilot keep an eye on the ground, just in case our little friends try another rush from the village. Break. Echo, can you get your crew and the dragoons out of the aircraft? If so, rig your ship to blow.'

'I can't,' the voice came back, nearly hysterical. 'What's the problem?'

'My legs, my legs.'

'What's the matter with your legs?'

'I think they're broken.'

Taylor fought with all his might against flickering visions from an earlier time, of earlier wrecks, in a land that had never seen snow.

'Can your copilot get things going?'

Silence. Then:

'He's dead.'

Taylor closed his eyes. Then he spoke in a beautifully controlled voice:

'Echo, this is Sierra. Just take it easy. We'll have you out of there before you know it. Try to think as clearly as you can. Now tell me. Is anybody fully capable in the dismount compartment?'

'I don't know,' the pilot answered. His voice had calmed a little, and the tone was almost rational. 'The intercom's out, and I can't move. Oh, my God. We've got a fire. We've got a fire.'

'Flapper, get us the hell down there,' Taylor barked. The injured pilot had lost all control of himself now. 'Oh, God,' he pleaded to the radio, 'please don't let me burn. Please don't let me burn.'

'Just hold on,' Taylor said, trying to remain controlled himself. 'We're almost there.'

'Please… please…'

'What about your fire suppression system?' Taylor demanded. 'Can you operate it manually?'

'I can't move. Can’t. Please. Oh, God, I don t want to burn. Don't let me burn.'

As it descended the M-100 turned so that Taylor could see the wreck again. It was very close now. And there was, indeed, a fire. In the forward fuselage, where the pilot’s exit hatch was located.

Then Taylor saw one hopeful sign. At the rear of the downed M-100, a soldier was on his feet. He had already lain two of his comrades in the snow, and he was headed back inside the burning aircraft.

Taylor’s ship settled, and he lost sight of everything in the white-out of blown snow.

'Echo,' Taylor called. 'We’re on the ground. We're coming to get you.'

' — burning—' The voice of an agonized child.

The M-100 had not yet made its peace with the ground, but Taylor leapt from his seat, scrambling back toward the exterior hatch.

'Stay with the bird,' he ordered Krebs.

Taylor’s shoulder holster snagged briefly on a metal projection He tore it loose and bent to wrestle with the dual levers that secured the hatch. The covering popped outward and slid to the side with a pneumatic hiss.

A rush of cold air struck Taylor’s face. He dropped into the snow and it fluffed well above his ankles. The noise of the M-100 was overpowering on the outside, but he nonetheless began to shout at the dark form lugging bodies through the snow a football field away.

'Move them further off. Get them further away.'

The distant soldier did not respond. Unhearing in the wind and the big cloud of engine noise. Meredith came up on Taylor’s left, followed by one of the NCOs from the ops center. Together, the three men ran stumbling through the snow, the NCO carrying an automatic rifle at the ready and glancing from side to side.

A billow of fire rose from the central fuselage of the downed craft.

'Jesus Christ,' Taylor swore.

The NCO slipped in the snow at his side, then recovered. Up ahead, the soldier involved in rescuing his comrades paid them no attention whatsoever. He drew another body from the burning machine.

Taylor ran as hard as his lungs and the snow would allow. Even though he had left the comms net far behind, he still imagined that he could hear the pleas of the trapped pilot.

From somewhere off to the right, behind the veil of the snowstorm, weapons began to sound — hard flat reports against the whine of the M-100 waiting behind Taylor's back. Small arms. The enemy were coming dismounted this time. There would be no obvious targets for the escort bird flying cover.

Meredith was quick, with a quarterback's agility, and he reached the rear of the downed bird ahead of the others. He was shouting at the soldier, even as he tried to help the man with his human burden.

More firing.

Taylor and the NCO came up beside Meredith and the rescuer. On the verge of speech, Taylor was silenced by the sight of the boy's face. Bruised and swollen, the expression was nonetheless strikingly clear. The boy was in shock. He was dragging his comrades out of the wreck automatically, conditioned to the task. But he had no real consciousness of anything around him.

'Sarge, you come with me,' Taylor ordered. 'Merry, this mess is yours.'

Taylor dodged a severed block of metal and ran up around the M-100's stubby wing and flank rotor, howling wind at his back. He leapt at the pilot's hatch, grabbing the recessed handle despite the nearby flames.

'Fuck,' he shouted, recoiling and shaking his scorched hand.

The door was locked from the inside.

The NCO passed him, heading straight for the cockpit. Standing on the tips of his toes, the man could just look inside.

'Is he all right?' Taylor shouted.

'Can't see. Goddamned smoke.'

'We'll have to smash in the windscreen.'

The NCO looked at the fragile assault rifle in his hands. 'No way,' he said matter-of-factly.

A burst of fire reached the M-100 and danced along its armored side, ricocheting.

'Fuck it,' Taylor shouted. 'Just see if you can pick out where the shooting's coming from. I'll try to get to the engineer kit.'

He doubled back to the rear of the wreck. Somehow, Merry had convinced the dazed soldier to drag his comrades to a spot more distant from the flames and smoke— and closer to Taylor's ship.

Merry's coffee-colored cheeks had grimed with smoke. He came up to speak to Taylor, but with hardly a glance, Taylor pushed past him, darting up the ramp into the smoke-filled dismount compartment built into the rear of the M-100.

His lungs began to fill up immediately, and he could not see. He knew the ammunition was all stowed in specially sealed subcompartments, but he had no idea how much longer the linings would resist the heat.

He stumbled along an inner wall, tapping over the irregular surface with a blistered hand. He was searching for the compartment where the pioneer tools were stowed — shovels and pickaxes for digging in. It was hard to judge the distance and layout in the smoke.

He almost collapsed in a faint. Instead, the near-swoon shocked him with adrenaline, and he hurriedly stumbled back out into the fresh, biting air.

The cold scorched his lungs. He bent over, hands on his knees, choking. His breath would not come. He realized he had come within an instant of going down with smoke inhalation. Probably dying.

The world swirled as if he had drunk too much. He fought to steady himself, to master his breathing. More shots rang out through the storm. Were they closer now?

He straightened, gulping at the cold. He tried to remember the exact distance to the compartment where the manual specified the stowage of the squad's pioneer tools. He had helped write the damned thing, but now it was a struggle to remember. Left wall, wasn't it? Third panel, upper row.

'You all right, sir?' Meredith called. His voice sounded flat and weak against the noise of flames, wind, distant engines, and pocking gunfire. The younger man came up and put a hand on Taylor's shoulder.

'No time,' Taylor said, knocking the hand away. 'Just get the wounded on board.