When he lowered the can, he looked back at Eve. “I think you should reconsider. If the dioxin holds them back, you have it better here than you will in the refugee camps.”
“Are they really that bad?” Eve asked with determination on her face.
James double fisted cans of soda and swaggered to the center of the green, plopping on his rear, leaning back against this pack. He retrieved a small plastic bowl from his pocket and poured a can of soda into it, laughing as Duke lapped it up.
“Bro, I don’t think that’s good for him,” Jacob said, walking closer.
James laughed again. “Relax, it’s diet.” He leaned back, taking a sip from his own can. He turned and looked at Eve. “The camps? They are that bad, sweetheart. I would take living underground any day over what you'll find in those lawless places. Hell, look at Jacob over there. He picked living with us over the camps.”
Eve turned back at Jacob. “Really?”
Jacob shrugged before moving away and finding his own place to sit on the green.
“I’ve only been to one, and I hope I never have to go back,” James continued. “Early last month on a recruiting drive, looking for able-bodied men. I had low expectations on the bus ride over. Thinking who would voluntarily sign up for this shit? We go outside the wire every day, and most of the people in the camps fought hard just to reach them. When we rolled through those gates and the bus doors opened, my mind was blown. It’s the kind of squalor that would make a third-world country proud.
“Prostitution, drugs, booze, everything and anything that can be bought is for sale. The gangs run everything inside. Yes, they have peace officers, but for the most part, they stay out of the way. The bus was there for under an hour, and we had sixty volunteers. The ones left in line started rioting after we filled the bus. We had to start a fight just to get away. Yeah, one time was enough for me. Take my friend’s advice; you're better off here.”
Eve looked down at the ground and turned away. The air suddenly echoed with the noise of an approaching helicopter. Rogers’s radio squawked. He nodded and pulled a flare from his vest, popping a tab, then threw the device off to the side of the green. Soon after, a small Kiowa scout helicopter swooped by at high speed. Painted in a non-reflective glass, the bird flew so close that they could see a sniper hanging from the side. It cut a wide arc and circled several times before leaving the area.
James pointed at the horizon. Two small dots slowly built in size and eventually materialized into a pair of large, twin-rotor Chinook helicopters. “We got a pair of Shit Hooks in bound,” James said without getting up.
They approached from the east, flying in column with one slightly back and to the right of the other. They lined up on the fairway of the ninth green, the lead helicopter’s nose rising slightly before it touched down on its wheels. Ramps dropped and rows of soldiers in full battle dress poured out, creating a perimeter.
Jacob jumped to his feet and tossed his empty can in a pile near the others. He slung his rifle and moved closer to Rogers as two officers approached from the lead helicopter. The first was tall and wore a clean uniform. His body armor looked new, out of the box, with no attachments. His only visible weapon was in a green, nylon drop holster over his right thigh.
The second man was in sharp contrast to the first, shorter and broad shouldered. His face bore deep scars; his uniform was soiled, the knees and elbows worn and faded. His armor was frayed and stained, covered with gear: a pair of shooting gloves tucked into a fold, a medical kit, frag grenades, and a cross-draw holster at the center of his chest. In the man’s right arm, he carried an M4 carbine with a laser and optic attached.
The men, who had their heads down to avoid the blast from the rotors, marched directly toward them. Jacob turned and saw Eve still standing at the back edge of the green. James was still sprawled on his rucksack, holding Duke next to him.
The man in front stuck a hand out to Rogers. He made a point of pointing to the rank tab on the front of Rogers’s uniform. “Staff Sergeant, I’m Captain Cole, this is Captain Emmitt. Are you in charge?”
Rogers looked back at James, who nodded his unspoken agreement. Rogers turned back to the captain. “Sir, I’ve taken lead.”
Emmitt interjected. “I was hoping to find Lieutenant Jeffrey Marks; is he here?”
Rogers looked down and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, sir. Our C.O. didn’t make it.”
Emmitt pursed his lips. “I’m sorry to hear that. Marks was a good man.”
An enlisted soldier ran to Cole, delivering a white sheet of paper. Cole read the note enthusiastically and looked back to Rogers. “The Kiowa just reported in. It's amazing. He says the Deltas are grouped but maintaining a nearly perfect one-mile standoff from the lake. You’ll have to brief me on how long it’s been like this, and exactly how you deployed the MX4.”
The helicopters engines shut down, the blades beginning to slow. Jacob watched the soldiers return to the ramp of the Chinook; they were unloading containers of gear. Large green boxes and canvas bags. Rogers stepped closer to Cole. “Sir, I can give you a full brief. I see that you have deployed men and equipment; will you be staying in the area?”
The officer nodded excitedly. “Oh yes, Sergeant, if our results are as promising as the German Army says, we'll be staying here for a long time. The Bundeswehr reports once a pond is killed, the Delta will not return to it. Our Kiowa flew
