Intrepid

25

''I'm getting radio static,'' the tech in the backseat of Colonel Cortez's rig shouted.

Cortez jumped to his feet, holding on to the truck's windshield to steady himself as the driver slammed on the brakes.

''Don't stop, man. Floor it,'' Cortez shouted. He was leading Third Company, so he'd have the hundred meters between its nose and Second Company's tail to maneuver in.

Tires spun, the truck lurched ahead for a second, but then Cortez waved to the driver and shouted, ''Halt.''

The reason for the static was clearly visible up ahead.

There'd been a popping noise, not even as loud as sleepy darts on lowest power. Small clots of dirty white smoke now drifted on the light wind. And about half of Second Company was struggling in the throes of a tangle net.

The sticky-covered web had a life of its own. Even as Cortez shouted, ''Get away from that stuff,'' a couple of white berets tried to help their trapped comrades-in-prayer. They didn't have a prayer, but were immediately sucked into the trap.

Cortez leapt from his rig, whipping out his automatic. ''Get back, you idiots. The next man that gets tangled in that mess I will personally shoot. Get back, damn it.''

Whether it was the waving gun … or the foul language … or the look on Cortez's face, the psalm singers backed away from their entangled buddies.

Cortez mashed his commlink. ''Zhukov, please tell me your engineers have a few spray cans of Goo-Off.''

''Why should we do that, sir?'' the major said in the calm, calculating voice of the financial backers … and proceeded to quote them word for word. ''In a mere six hours, that stuff will harden and fall off. Besides, we're not taking any. Why would you need to protect against it?''

Cortez didn't know whom he wanted to shoot most. Zhukov for reminding him how much they'd let a bunch of spineless civilians call the shots for them … or the spineless civilians.

He turned away from the writhing mass that would be Second Company for the next six hours and let his eyes rove the swamp. He detested the thought of spending the rest of the day standing on the causeway, a bleating target for anything out there.

And a shot rang out.

Not the usual, high-pitched scream of a military-issue M-6 dart. No, this shot had the deep-throated, windy roar of a major-caliber round. Maybe forty or fifty calibers on the old scale. You could follow its passage as it pushed the air aside and the hole collapsed behind it.

It would fly straight for quite a while. But it was slow.

Cortez collapsed at the knees. He just might be able to fall far enough for it to miss him.

The colonel was just landing on the grassy roadway when he realized he wasn't the target. Behind him came the sharp gnashing of metal on metal, punctuated by an explosion of steam. The colonel rolled over on his belly. The air sighed out of him as he surveyed the destruction of that round.

The steel louvers that guarded his rig's radiator were opened hardly more than twenty millimeters. The round that had swooped by his head must have been at least 10mm, possibly more. Some sharpshooter had aimed it between the louvers and hit his target. Once past the armor, the round had sliced through his radiator, bounced off the engine block … and taken another bite out of the radiator on its way to find a louver to bounce off of, and then ripped another hole. Colonel Cortez's command rig was not going anywhere until its radiator was switched out.

To his right, left, more deep-throated rounds filled the air, and other rigs down the line exploded in steam that sent troopers fleeing lest it touched them with its hot breath.

The colonel shot to his feet. ''Get in front of those radiators, you idiots. Get your worthless bodies in front of the rigs. They won't dare shoot you.''

The men in the trucks looked at each other, as if they might find a translation of Cortez's strange orders in their mates' eyes. Some of the men walking beside the trucks started to move in obedience to the colonel's orders, but it hardly seemed to matter. In ones and twos, fours and fives, hardly seconds apart, the front ends of the trucks exploded in hissing, steaming mists.

Angry and frustrated, Cortez let himself blow up at the uselessness of his patched-together command. He threw down his automatic, grabbed the nearest quaking private, and shoved him down the line. ''Go find a working radiator and put your empty head in front of it.''

Colonel Cortez struggled to recover his temper. He did stoop to pick up his weapon. A high-pitched round of an M-6 rang out, followed by a fusillade.

''No, no, no,'' Cortez growled as he stood up. ''You don't shoot the heart out of my motor transport so carefully that I don't have an excuse to execute one damn hostage, then start killing my boys. You can't be that stupid after being that brilliant,'' he said as he looked around.

His command rig was rocking as first one tire, then another, then a third was punctured. Down the line, other trucks went down faster as their tires went flat in pairs or trios.

Soldiers, ordered only a moment ago to put their bodies in front of steaming engine blocks, moved to kneel in front of tires. But whoever was calling the shots wanted the tires dead faster.

Colonel Cortez whipped around. More fire, rapid fire, must mean more shooters closer in. ''Look for shooters. Look for targets,'' he ordered. But even as the words roared out of his mouth, he knew they would be failures. Order, counterorder, disorder.

Cortez had learned that long ago at East Point. As a junior officer he'd watched as flag-and-field grad officers had foolishly reproven the adage. Now it was his turn.

Troopers sliding to a stop or hunkering down in front of tires … most of them going flat … needed a second to turn their concentration elsewhere.

That second was enough.

The fusillade ended.

The silence was incredibly pure, just the wind through the trees and bush and the drip, drip of water from the nearest radiator. No moan of wounded, no scream for medic. Just mesmerizing silence.

''Shoot, damn it!'' Cortez screamed into the hardening quiet.

''At what, sir?'' someone dared to call back.

''Out there,'' Cortez shouted, waving his pistol over the dark, muddy waters. ''Out there, they're escaping. Shoot. Shoot anything that moves, or looks to be moving or might move.''

The first shots were sporadic. Then, as soldiers came to prone or kneeling or standing positions, the fire grew into a deafening roar. Clips were emptied and replaced. The mad minute lengthened into two. Trees and shrubs trembled, then came all to pieces. Water here and there was whipped to a white froth.

Cortez studied the effects downrange. Maybe they hit something. Maybe rounds caught someone as they withdrew. Maybe some dart addressed ''To whom it may concern'' had ripped into someone, spreading blood into the water.

Maybe … but Cortez saw no blood, no flesh, no effect at all. He raised his hand, and shouted, ''Cease fire.''

It took a moment for other officers to see his raised hand, to make out his order … and to carry it out. A full minute expended itself before the last shooter was shouted to silence.

Now the silence truly was deafening. He ignored his ears and stared to the right of the causeway, then the left. Here or there, a tree, too shot up to resist gravity, tottered and fell.

Cortez looked for any sign of movement. To his left, a bird squawked and paddled madly in circles, its right wing red with gore. ''Kill it,'' he ordered.

A single shot dispatched the creature.

Now the silence was total. The wavelets from its circling dissipated. The water of the swamp grew glassy except where the wind rolled newly downed trees.

If there had been shooters out there a moment ago, there was no sign of them now. No sign of their dead. No sign of their wounded. No sign of nothing.

''Ah, could someone help us out of this mess?'' It was the voice of Second Company's captain. He, like most of his company, had spent the last few minutes cringing in the grip of the tangle net, trying to make themselves small and somehow avoid getting hit by either incoming or outgoing.

Cortez turned back to his initial problem of so long ago … maybe five minutes before. The colonel's latest survey of them showed nothing that his first glance hadn't told him. ''In six hours the stuff will fall off of you. Until then, I suggest you avoid moving.''

''Can we breathe?'' came from one private.

''Only if you must, and then I would suggest as little as possible,'' Cortez said, and turned away to survey the wreckage.

* * *

So Cortez was a mad-minute kind of guy. And Kris owed Jack five bucks. Kris had assumed someone at the end of a long supply line and stripped of all his transports would do the logical thing and conserve ammo.

Jack had bet that anyone dumb enough to take this job would have a temper. Also, a name like Cortez just didn't seem likely to think rationally once his ox had been gored good and tight.

It had been a friendly bet. As friendly as any a Longknife could have about a live-fire exercise.

So Jack made sure his sharpshooters were ready to go to ground once their job was done. Last shot fired, not one had begun a withdrawal. Each had a hidey-hole handy, the bole of a broom tree, an islet an inch or two above the water. They'd dug to improve their positions, just enough, but not enough to give themselves away.

Then they'd waited.

The wait had been worthwhile.

And despite Colonel Cortez's deafening response, Jack saw no evidence that the score between them was other than zero to zero.

Except Jack had reduced Cortez to walking, and the Marines still had local transport. Oh, and half of one of Cortez's companies was all tangled up, blocking the road, and would be blocking that road the rest of the day. Jack had allowed two hours for his troops to withdraw from contact and expected to be well to the north before he made camp.

With any luck, he and Kris would be in a position tonight to have a little talk of their own. And Drago would be in position, every ninety minutes or so, to tell them how Cortez was doing.

Would the guy use this opportunity to cut and run? Head south, pile into his landers, and get out of Dodge? Neither Kris nor Jack would put a dime down on that bet.

Both, in their heart of hearts, would love to see the backside of this bunch. But hoping for something is not a strategy. If the guy turned south, it was more likely to go on the defensive and invite Kris to try the tactical offensive.

Jack shook his head. He'd been loving the job Kris gave him. Exercise an offensive strategy by being on the tactical defensive. Let Cortez chase them until they had him exactly where they wanted him. It had worked this time. Would he be kind enough to let Kris and Jack do it a second time?

Time to get started. He mashed his commlink but limited it to the landline net. ''Sergeant Thu.''

''Yes, sir,'' came back a fraction of a second slower than it would have on milnet.

''You can untie your locals from the trees they're hitched to.''

''They be glad to hear that.''

''Tell them they can go home now or they can help us. We need holes dug. If they're willing to dig, we'd love to keep them, and they may be in on the final shoot-out.''

There was a bit of silence. ''They say if they'll get a chance to shoot up these robbers, they'll do some digging first.''

''Good. You have them start digging. You see the other group of locals coming in from the west?''

''I got them marked, sir.''

''Leave your corporal to look after this crew, and you ride over to them and invite them to the fun. Same rules. Dig holes alongside the main road. Then shoot if it comes to that. But dig first.''

''Sir, I don't think these farmers understand how much a light infantry man loves his shovel.''

''Can't think of a better man to teach a man to lust after his shovel than a Marine sergeant.''

On the causeway, an occasional shot rattled the silence and sent winged things back into flight. Jack doubted they were hitting anything, but he couldn't be sure. He should have everyone's vitals showing up on his battle board. Not today.

Today, he'd have to wait and see who showed up at the rally point. What a way to make war. That this had been the norm for most of the history of warfare did not make Jack feel one bit better.

He took a last look at the scene across the water from his borrowed ''fort,'' then unplugged himself from the temporary net and headed for the back of the cave. A newly dug exit put him on the surface among a lot of broom trees and brush. He had a two-mile walk for a truck.

He enjoyed it.