President Sims rapped his knuckles on the table. “You raise a good point, Ms. Chen. We haven’t won this cauldron battle yet, far from it, in fact. Alan, tell me more about this division’s worth of soldiers facing the Brazilians. And I want to know the exact capabilities of this ballistic missile reserve.”
“Yes, Mr. President. First, I’d like to point out that—”
Master Sergeant Kavanagh and Romo waited behind a log redoubt. No one could tell it was made of timber because a thick blanketing of snow covered the wood from last night. Fifty yards on either side of them ranged other snow-clad bunkers, holding other recon teams. The line stretched for several miles with a little under one thousand soldiers spread out in teams.
Paul and Romo wore their white suits, with the heaters presently shut off. The sun shone today, around one in the afternoon. The flat white expanse before them was brilliant because of it. Behind the redoubt sat a single snowmobile.
This line was the forward tripwire against the enemy. There was another line behind them with a greater abundance of Militia troops busily digging trenches and setting up mortar and TOW teams.
Every hour the Brazilians failed to attack gave High Command time to bring more supplies and more soldiers into position. If the Brazilians hit elsewhere, Paul had orders to pack up his precious supply of Javelins and attack the Brazilian flank.
Snowmobiles attacking tanks: Paul didn’t think he’d ever heard of that. It sounded desperate. Was America worried after the grand assault? Maybe they were anxious to hold what they’d taken.
Paul and Romo each sat cross-legged. They had a backgammon set between them. Romo tossed a pair of dice onto the wooden board. The dice bounced and clacked, coming up with seven. They used to play chess, but having to think…Paul and Romo were too tired for that. It was enough to roll the dice and move the pieces around the backgammon board.
From time to time Paul heard jets. The two of them stopped playing and lay flat. Once they saw the markings. Brazilians jets zoomed low to the ground. They didn’t strafe or unload bombs, so that was something. From far to the rear of their positions came explosions.
“The Militia line,” Romo said. “I doubt it’s as well-hidden as our post. I hope the jets didn’t bust it up too much.”
Paul grunted agreement.
Around four in the afternoon, distant American artillery opened up. It fired from the northwest.
Paul shut the backgammon game and set it to the side. Romo took out a cigar and smoked it. Paul lay back and put his hands behind his head. He thought about Cheri and watched cigar smoke curl into the clear sky.
A squawk came from the radio. Paul stirred, acknowledging the call. He discovered that a general spoke to them. The man spoke to the front line of recon teams. Paul had never heard of this general, but the officer ordered them out of the redoubts. He wanted them to head east and attack whatever they found. The Brazilians had struck fifteen miles north of their positions.
“Yes sir,” Paul said, stowing the radio afterward.
“Attack?” asked Romo.
“Let’s mount up,” Paul said.
They left the redoubt at 4:43 P.M. The recon teams didn’t bunch up. That wasn’t their habit. Each set out east and slowly they spread apart from each other.
By 5:36, Paul and Romo discovered they were alone in a wide expanse of nothing. It was dark now. They turned on their suits, used night vision and long-range scanning.
At 7:12, Romo said, “Do you see that?”
Paul didn’t. It was obvious that between them Romo had the better sight. He was younger so it made sense.
Romo pointed. Paul drove and after another quarter-mile, he saw a ribbon of movement on the horizon.
“Hang on,” Paul said. He opened up the throttle.
At 7:52 P.M., the snowmobile’s engine quit. They slid silently for a time and then came to a halt in the snow. They tried, but couldn’t repair it.
Finally, Paul focused on the distant movement. “Trucks,” he said.
“And other supply vehicles,” Romo said.
“It’ll take an hour to get there on foot. They might be gone by then.”
“Radio it in.”
Paul shrugged. He had been about to do that, but he wondered why he bothered. Their side was always running out of smart bombs. Why would it be any different now?
“Say again,” the air-controller said.
Paul told him the info, giving the man the coordinates.
“Do you have a target designator?” the air-controller asked.
“Of course,” Paul said.
“Get closer and put it on them.”
“Let’s go,” Paul told Romo. They left the snowmobile and jogged through the snow. Paul carried a Blowdart launcher and the laser designator. Romo had taken a Javelin.
At 8:17, the air-controller came back online. “Are they still there?”
“Yes and no,” Paul said. “The former supply vehicles have moved on, but we’re near another group.”
“Can you reach them with your laser from where you are?”
“Yes,” Paul said. “You’re telling me you have smart bombs this time?”
“Negative,” the air-controller said. “But somebody upstairs must like you. Once you pinpoint them, ballistic missiles will be on their way.”
Paul knelt and fired the laser at the big trucks moving slowly in the distance. Soon, the ballistic missiles hit the convoy. They started big fires, with belching oil-flames billowing into the starry sky. It was spectacular.
It took an hour and a quarter of trudging through the snow for Paul and Romo to reach the destruction, which took place on an old dirt road. The ballistic missiles had cut a wide swath of destruction. The two men counted fifty-three vehicles. Some still burned. There were countless dead and wounded. Some soldiers carried QBZ-95 assault rifles.
Romo pointed out a truck tilted at a crazy angle. Brazilian soldiers in heavy snow coats manhandled huge crates out of the back of it. The soldiers moved the heavy crates to waiting jeeps. There were seven of them in a line. One jeep already held several of the crates. A soldier climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine.
Paul and Romo glanced at each other. Without a word, both lay down. Paul readied his M-16, wrapping the carrying strap around one of his hands. He nodded to Romo.
Romo prepared the Javelin for firing. “Bad odds for us, my friend,” he said.
“Let’s just get it over with,” Paul said.
“Si,” Romo whispered. He sighted and fired.
The Javelin whooshed and sped fast, hitting the piled-high jeep, causing a fantastic explosion. The blast flattened everyone around it, and the explosion started other fantastic blasts—the biggest and worst in the truck.
Paul barely had time to shove his visor down against the ground. The blast lifted him, tumbling him backward through the air. He struck ground, rolled and rolled like a rag doll. Finally, he came to a stop. He just lay there face down, breathing, glad to be alive.
What had been in those crates?
Finally, Paul stirred. He moved his fingers first, his wrists next and then his elbows. Nothing appeared broken. He stood up and checked his suit for breaches, for holes. It was whole. He was okay, if badly bruised.
“Romo,” he radioed.
“What was that?” Romo radioed back.
Paul found his blood brother twenty feet away. After checking him, Paul discovered that Romo had come through all right as well. The assassin was harder to kill than a bad tax.
From a distance, they examined the former truck with the jeeps. All the vehicles were flipped over or on their sides. None of the Brazilians stirred.
“I wonder if there’s another one around here that still works,” Romo said.
They searched and found one ten minutes later. The engine had a bad knock. Taking a final look around, finding nothing left to destroy, the two men climbed into the Brazilian jeep. They headed west for the American lines, hoping that their part in the Brazilian offensive was over.