Some of the communications officers were there, talkingin hushed tones, their faces gray and ashen.
"What's the word, men?"
Neither of the men could look him in the eye. That wasnot a good thing.
McCutcheon grabbed the coffee pot, and dumped some mudinto his cup. For a second, he thought about just drinking the coffee black forthe men's sake, but only a maniac would let the army's supernatural coffeeconcoction slide down their throat without a dose of sugar or cream. He grabbedthe powdered creamer on the counter, and dumped it into his cup, followed byone plain white packet of sugar.
He could feel the communications officers watching himout of the corner of his eye. He stirred the coffee with a plain white swizzlestick, and when he couldn't stand their staring anymore, he said, "What isit?"
The stockier of the two communications officers looked athim and stammered out a reply. "We were just talking about contingencyplans, sir."
McCutcheon laughed without looking at the men. "Oh,really? And what did you two geniuses come up with, all on your own?"
The taller communications officer spoke. "We werejust wondering when the mission would be called. I mean we've made almost noground so far and..."
McCutcheon stopped stirring his coffee and turned to facethe men. "Stop right there, private. Your first mistake was talking in thefirst place. Your second mistake was trying to figure out something that is farbeyond your pay grade. But your biggest mistake is walking around here flappingyour gums about contingency plans."
McCutcheon grabbed his cup of coffee and tossed it intothe metal sink. He slammed the coffee cup on the counter and looked the tallman in the eye, boring a hole into his head with his stare. "You want outof here? Huh?" The men said nothing, their eyes large and round."There are three ways out of here, private. One, you die. Two, you dropyour shit and walk out of here, and you die alone. Three, you stop yoursniveling, you get back on those comms, and you help us start winning thiswar."
McCutcheon strode up to the tall man, and though thecomms officer had some six inches on him, McCutcheon could feel him shrink withevery syllable. "Now get your ass back on those comms, and if I hear anymore of your uninformed suppositions about tactics, you'll find yourself hikinghome through Annie territory with nothing but your dick in your hand. You gotthat?"
"Sir, yes, sir." The communications officersaluted McCutcheon and turned on his heel, heading back to the small room whereall of the communications equipment had been set up. The smaller communicationsofficer did the same, and when they had both disappeared, McCutcheon set aboutthe business of redoing his coffee, which he had only dumped purely for theatricalreasons.
It was worse than he thought. The men were squirrelly, hecould feel it. The two communications officers weren't just discussingcontingency plans. They were feeling out the situation, testing his mettle,seeing if any cracks were forming in his resolve. This was how it went. Thiswas why they were doomed.
In a normal confrontation on foreign soil, this situationnever happened. Soldiers did not simply drop their rifle and walk off intoforeign lands. But they weren't in a foreign land. These men were home, theirboots firmly walking on the dirt that they had each vowed to protect. Home wasa stolen car away, and at the rate they were going, there wouldn't be an Armyto bring them back in. First came the talk of contingency plans. Then came thetalk of disappearing. Then came the outright defiance and a broken chain ofcommand. McCutcheon was fairly sure that there was nothing he could do aboutany of this. The ball was dropping. He could either get out of the way or getcrushed by it.
"Fuck," McCutcheon said as he took a sip ofmud. "Not enough sugar."
Chapter 24: Barbarians at the Gate
The first thing that Murph saw on the camera was thebusted gate lying on the ground, entangled in the wheels of a pick-up truck.The gate had been a black iron thing that had always looked out of place. Itwas the type of gate that seemed more appropriate for a mansion than a powerplant. The gate was affixed to a couple of concrete guard shacks. As long asMurph could remember, there had never been any guards at the power plant, justa magnetic reader that scanned their work badges. Now the gate was twistedunderneath the truck, while the guard shack itself was caved in by the frontfender of the pick-up truck. He had no idea how long the truck had been therebecause he had no idea how long he had been lost in the hypnotic glow of theboiler.
The doors to the truck were wide open, as if someone hadfled the scene, and black exhaust still erupted from the truck's muffler.Bodies lay scattered about the desert ground, apparently thrown from the backof the pick-up in the collision. Sitting behind the wheel was a slumped form.Murph recognized the bony forearms immediately, even over the grainy camerafootage. It was Skinny Tom. What the fuck was he doing?
Murph watched as the form behind the steering wheel satup and slid from the driver's seat. It stumbled drunkenly, and Murph could seethat Skinny Tom was injured. The fingers of his right hand were missing, but hedidn't seem to notice. Then Murph saw another form climb out of the cab of thetruck, a little boy, his arm dripping blood and a blank look on his face thatwas a perfect match for the look plastered across Skinny Tom's face. On theblack and white monitor, it looked as if the boy's overalls had been stained inoil, but Murph was certain it was more blood.
The figures that had been thrown from the truck began tomove. They must have been packed into the back of the pick-up like sardines.There were ten that Murph could see. He watched as Skinny Tom knelt next to awoman whose forehead was bleeding. He wrapped his arms around her and
