''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.''
