'Goddamnit, Merry,' Taylor said, 'the ship shouldn't have gone down that hard. Just not supposed to. And the fire suppressant system's a worthless piece of shit.'
Meredith patted an inner panel of the aircraft with exaggerated affection. 'We still don't know exactly what happened, sir. Could've been a computer malfunction. Anything. Overall, these babies have been pretty good to us today.'
The two men felt a quick pulse under the deck as Krebs delivered a high-velocity round that would shatter the wreck back on the ground beyond recognition.
'Anyway, Merry,' Taylor said, 'thanks.' He gestured with a blistered hand. 'For back there.'
Meredith looked embarrassed.
The two men sat just a few moments longer, drained, and heavy now with the knowledge that they both had to get back to work as though nothing had occurred. So much depended on them.
'I wonder how Lucky Dave's doing,' Meredith mused. He glanced at his watch. 'First Squadron ought to be on the ground at Silver by now.'
Noguchi trembled. He had never doubted his personal bravery, certain that he was somehow superior to average men with their average emotions. He had, until this hour, envisioned himself as a warrior with a marble heart, armored in a will of steel. But now, as he counted down the seconds before unleashing his weapons, his flying gloves clotted to his palms and his lower lip ticked as he counted to himself without realizing it. He fixed his eyes straight on, although the shield of his flight helmet would have prevented any of the crew members from seeing the uncertainty in them. He could not bear the thought that other men might scent the least fear in him.
It was the weapons themselves that frightened him. The glorious kamikaze pilots of yesteryear had been faced with so clean a proposition: to die splendidly and suddenly for the emperor, for Japan. Dying held little terror for Noguchi, who envisioned it as the door to an uncomplicated nothingness. What frightened him was the condition in which he might have to live, if anything went wrong with the Scramblers.
The counter stripped away the seconds.
They had almost reached the optimal release point for the drones.
And if something went wrong? If the Scramblers activated prematurely? If he was unable to turn his aircraft out of the Scramblers' reach with sufficient speed? If the effective range of the Scramblers proved even greater than projected? If ground control brought his aircraft back on the automatic flight controls, with a terrible cargo? There were so many ifs. The Scramblers had never even had a real field trial — it would have been impossible. And the experiments on animals could not be regarded as conclusive.
The thought that the Scramblers might touch back at him, might caress him, their appointed master, with their power, left him physically unsteady and incapable of rigorous thought.
He glanced again at the monitor. Within half an hour of touching down, the Americans' automatic camouflage systems had done a surprisingly good job of hiding the aircraft — even though it was evident that the mechanical measures had not been designed with the anomalies of a snow-covered landscape in mind. Of course, the Scramblers would affect everything over a huge area — but it was reassuring to know that the prime target was exactly where the transmissions had promised it would be.
The man's eyes were impossibly wide with fear.
Panic razored through Noguchi. But when he turned back to the instrumentation panel, he saw that there were still several seconds left. His copilot had lost control. Unforgivably. Like a woman or a child.
'Shut up, you fool,' Noguchi told him. But he did not look back at the man. He remained afraid that his face might reflect too much of the weakness revealed on his subordinate's features.
Noguchi struggled to steady himself. But the mental images challenged him again, attacking his last selfdiscipline with visions of the condition in which a faulty application of the Scramblers might leave him.
A thousand times better to die.
He locked his eyes on the digital counter, finger poised on the sensor control that would release the drones.
All my life
I have been
aimed like an arrow
toward
'Banzai,' Noguchi screamed, tearing his throat.
He touched the release sensor.
'Banzai,' he screamed again.
'Banzai,' his crew echoed through the intercom.
He took personal control of the aircraft and banked as hard as he could.
'Clean release,' he heard in his helmet's tiny speakers. One by one, the other aircraft in his flight reported in. Clean release, clean release.
Noguchi found his course and ordered all of the aircraft under his command to accelerate to the maximum. Behind them, the undersized drones sped quietly toward a place called Silver.
'Roger,' Heifetz reported over the command net. 'Everybody's tucked in. Assembly Areas Gold and Platinum report fully secure status. We have no systems losses. The Tango element took five KIA and eleven WIA during ground contact with an Iranian headquarters site, but I think you might want to get the details straight from him.' Taylor's voice returned. He sounded unusually raspy and stressed to Heifetz. 'Everything okay at your site?'
'Basically. There was a small site-management problem. Part of Silver was already occupied by Soviet support troops. There's no coordination. Their system's gone to hell. One unit opened fire on us before we got it all sorted out.'
'Casualties?'
'No. We were lucky. Now we have what they used to call 'peaceful coexistence.' '
'Christ,' Taylor said. 'That's all we need. Gunfights with the Russians.'
'It's all right now. Tercus is putting his boys into good hide positions. He's very impressive.'
'All right. We should be at your location in approximately forty minutes,' Taylor said. 'I've got a probable heavy concussion casualty on board and another soldier in ambulatory shock. We'll need medical support when we come in.'
'Roger. We'll be waiting. Over.'
'Five-five out.'
Heifetz laid down the hand mike. Such a good day, he thought. It was bewildering how such a good day could be formed of so much death. A Jericho of steel, he said to himself, thinking of the Japanese-built war machine that had tumbled into ruin across the morning.
It was enough for him. He had already made up his mind. He simply did not know how he was going to break the news to Taylor.
He would finish the campaign. Then he would resign. He had squandered so much of his life in confusion, in self-deception, in the deep dishonor of the honorable man of mistaken purpose. He had been a good soldier, of course. In all of the outward respects. Now it was time to stop before he became a bad one.
He was going to go home. To the new home his fellow refugees were building in the Israeli settlements in
