It wasn't until Ellerbee arrived at his first assignment that he found himself confronted by what many old-timers simply referred to as "The Issue." Five years after the first females entered combat arms, there was still an unofficial debate raging over the issue, a debate Ellerbee found himself in the middle of. Quite by accident, he was assigned to what his platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Rourk, called a pure platoon, meaning that there were no females assigned to it. When Ellerbee asked how that could be, especially since 10 percent of the company was female, Rourk smiled and winked. "Well, sir," he said, "the first sergeant and I have an understanding. When replacements come in, I get first dibs on them." Even Ellerbee understood what that meant. Though he knew that such a practice was not in the spirit of the Army's policy concerning integration, he said nothing. Dealing with replacements, after all, was sergeants' business. So Ellerbee allowed Rourk to continue to manipulate the system.
As innocent as that was, Ellerbee soon found himself adopting Rourk's viewpoint, an effort that was reinforced by other officers in the battalion and unconsciously by his own company commander. Whenever the officers of the battalion gathered socially, Ellerbee noticed that for the most part the male officers gravitated together while the female officers did likewise. In these small social groups, the business of the day was discussed, with one or more male officers inevitably complaining about the latest "female" problem in his unit or section. Ellerbee, as anxious to be accepted by his fellow officers as he was to be accepted by his platoon sergeant, said nothing. He was, after all, new and was learning. Since his platoon was "pure," many of his fellow officers would end their complaint sessions by looking at him, shaking their heads, and saying, "Ellerbee, you're lucky. I don't know how you keep your platoon pure. But whatever your method, keep it up. It'll save you a lot of heartburn."
On duty, Ellerbee found himself being compared to the platoon leader of the 1st Platoon, a Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson. Assigned to the company eight months before Ellerbee, Johnson had earned the grudging respect of Ellerbee's company commander. During their annual gunnery cycle, three of her four tanks qualified distinguished. This was followed up by a rotation at the Combined Arms Training Center during which Johnson's 1st Platoon performed brilliantly. Unable to argue with success, everyone assumed Johnson was a shoo-in to be the next company executive officer. So it was quite natural that Ellerbee's company commander, as well as the battalion commander, held Johnson up as the role model for newly assigned platoon leaders.
Ellerbee found he was unable to deal with this comparison. How, he asked himself, could anyone possibly expect him, an independent and successful man, who was no slouch when it came to looks and athletic ability, to pattern himself after a girl? At five foot five and 145 pounds, Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson was, to Ellerbee, nowhere near the ideal image of the great warrior that his commander seemed to think she was. As hard as he tried, he could not get beyond Johnson's big brown eyes and round face that was forever framed by long wisps of hair that always managed to free themselves from under her helmet or hat. Johnson had an easygoing, unassuming, and cooperative manner. Coupled with an adeptness when dealing with the people in her platoon as well as her superiors, she became quite popular with her commander and, to no one's surprise, to the men and women in her platoon. Still Ellerbee could not bring himself to see beyond the physical. His reaction was an emotional one, one that was reinforced by the attitudes of his platoon sergeant and other male officers in the battalion who refused to put "The Issue" to rest.
So it was no surprise that as Captain Nancy Kozak was busy pointing out to Ellerbee that he needed to do a better job of reporting the next time, her words were blocked out by Ellerbee's own thoughts. Over and over in his mind, as he stood there listening to her, Ellerbee kept telling himself that he didn't need to take this from a damned woman who shouldn't have been there in the first place. Even after she left, Ellerbee found himself unable to concentrate on the matter at hand. Instead of maintaining the presence of mind that would be needed to deal with the coming fight, Ellerbee went over and over in his mind the earlier engagement, ending each review by mumbling to himself the same question. "Who," he quietly asked himself, "does that bitch think she is?"
With his mind occupied with thoughts that ranged from self-pity to anger, Ellerbee was too busy to notice that the yellow low battery indicator light on his control panel had lit up.
Major Nikolai Ilvanich and the survivors of Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, whom he now commanded, had no such difficulties when it came to keeping their minds on their current situation. Ilvanich's decision to move down the hill and away from the storage site had been accepted by everyone in the company without a murmur of protest. Besides, as Ilvanich pointed out to Lieutenant Fitzhugh before going into the tunnel with Rasper, there was always the possibility that the commander of the relief force would still attack. Not knowing how badly the facility had been damaged, the Ukrainians might still press home an attack, if for no other reason than to eliminate the raiders and find out exactly how much damage had been done to their precious nuclear weapons. Ilvanich therefore cautioned Fitzhugh that while he prepared the company to move, Fitzhugh was to pay attention to security of his force and be ready to go back into defensive positions if necessary. Fitzhugh had just finished making his rounds of those positions when Ilvanich and Rasper emerged from the tunnel.
Both Ilvanich and Rasper covered the final steps toward the entrance of the tunnel in quick, long strides. Neither man stopped to talk to Fitzhugh, who was waiting for them as they emerged from the tunnel. Instead, Rasper peeled off to the left while Ilvanich, barely slowing, went to the right, throwing himself against the side of the mountain. Once clear of the entrance, Rasper tore off his protective mask and threw it away from him in one quick motion as he bent over and began to throw up. Looking over at Rasper, Fitzhugh became alarmed. The first thing that came to his mind was radiation poisoning. Rasper, still bent over double, continued grasping his knees as his stomach muscles spasmed in an effort to expel their contents.
The Russian major, Fitzhugh thought, had been right. Rasper had absorbed lethal doses of radiation and was dying. Turning to Ilvanich, he saw that the Russian major had also ripped his protective mask off and was standing with his back against the side of the mountain, wide-eyed and staring off into the distance. Even in the pale moonlight, Fitzhugh could see the major's face had no color and that he was struggling to keep from throwing up. Overcoming his initial shock, Fitzhugh slowly walked over to Ilvanich. "Sir, is there anything I can do?"
Ilvanich didn't hear Fitzhugh. He didn't hear Rasper either as he struggled to control his dry heaves and shaking. He merely stood there unable to erase the image of twisted and disfigured bodies, burned beyond recognition, that hung before his eyes. Dear God, he thought over and over. How could we do such a thing to ourselves? How could sane men who claimed to be responsible leaders order their sons to such a death? It was not possible, not possible. Such murder, cloaked in the guise of political necessity and patriotism, transcended insanity. Such madness defied logic. There was no logic that could justify what had happened there that night. And again Ilvanich thought, Dear God, how could we do such a thing to ourselves?
Despite his years as an officer and experiences in combat, the overwhelming horrors that had greeted both him and Sergeant Rasper overcame any self-control that the two men had. With Ilvanich in the lead and Rasper following, the two men had almost made it to the elevator shafts. Their pace was slow and careful as Ilvanich with a flashlight worked his way around obstacles, barriers, and bodies, bodies that were burned to varying degrees. Some were missing limbs or heads. Most, burned black, were still smoldering, filling the air with the sickly-sweet smell of burned flesh.