"Goddammit just run," Taylor shouted.
They took off on a straight line for the dark outline of the command ship. The big rotors churned the sky in readiness. The underlying rumble of the engine promised salvation.
Krebs had seen them coming He had increased the power to the upended rotors and soon the noise was so loud that Taylor could no longer hear the rounds chasing him. Up ahead, the M-100 began to buck like an anxious horse Then Krebs steadied it again
Taylor ran as hard as he could. I don't want to get shot in the goddamned back, he thought. Not in the goddamned back.
The M-100 grew bigger and bigger, filling up Taylor s entire horizon.
His lungs ached.
"Come on," Meredith screamed at him.
He hated to leave the bodies. There was enough guilt already. Enough for a long, long lifetime.
Not in the back, he prayed, running the last few yards.
He felt Meredith's arms dragging him up into the hatch.
Krebs began lifting off before Meredith and Taylor could finish closing the hatch behind them. The ground faded away before their eyes. The universe swirled white. Then the hatch cover slammed back into place.
The two men dropped exhaustedly onto their buttocks, cramped in the tiny gangway. They looked at each other wordlessly, each man assuring himself that the other had not been touched by the send-off bullets. They were both covered with grime and with the blood of other men, and Meredith's eyebrows and close-cropped hair bore a fringe of snow that made him look as though he had been gotten up for an old man's part in a high school play. As Taylor watched, the S-2 wiped at the melting snow with a hand that left a bloody smear in its wake.
Taylor flexed his burned paw. Not too bad. Slap on a little ointment.
The M-100 climbed into the sky.
Taylor dropped his head back against the inner wall of the passageway, breathing deeply in an effort to purge his lungs of smoke and gas.
"Aw, shit," he said.
They had to gain sufficient standoff distance before they could use the main armament to destroy the remainder of the wreck. The Gatling gun would never have penetrated the composite armor. While they were gaining altitude, Meredith gave Taylor the rest of the bad news. Of the soldiers carried out of the rear compartment, only the shocked boy and one evident concussion case were alive. The remainder of the light squad of dragoons had died, victims either of the impact or of smoke inhalation. The command M-100 bore a cargo of corpses down in its compact storage hold.
"Goddamnit, Merry," Taylor said, "the ship shouldn't have gone down that hard. Just not supposed to. And the fire suppressant system's a worthless piece of shit."
Meredith patted an inner panel of the aircraft with exaggerated affection. "We still don't know exactly what happened, sir. Could've been a computer malfunction. Anything. Overall, these babies have been pretty good to us today."
The two men felt a quick pulse under the deck as Krebs delivered a high-velocity round that would shatter the wreck back on the ground beyond recognition.
"Anyway, Merry," Taylor said, "thanks." He gestured with a blistered hand. "For back there."
Meredith looked embarrassed.
The two men sat just a few moments longer, drained, and heavy now with the knowledge that they both had to get back to work as though nothing had occurred. So much depended on them.
"I wonder how Lucky Dave's doing," Meredith mused. He glanced at his watch. "First Squadron ought to be on the ground at Silver by now."
Noguchi trembled. He had never doubted his personal bravery, certain that he was somehow superior to average men with their average emotions. He had, until this hour, envisioned himself as a warrior with a marble heart, armored in a will of steel. But now, as he counted down the seconds before unleashing his weapons, his flying gloves clotted to his palms and his lower lip ticked as he counted to himself without realizing it. He fixed his eyes straight on, although the shield of his flight helmet would have prevented any of the crew members from seeing the uncertainty in them. He could not bear the thought that other men might scent the least fear in him.
It was the weapons themselves that frightened him. The glorious kamikaze pilots of yesteryear had been faced with so clean a proposition: to die splendidly and suddenly for the emperor, for Japan. Dying held little terror for Noguchi, who envisioned it as the door to an uncomplicated nothingness. What frightened him was the condition in which he might have to live, if anything went wrong with the Scramblers.
The counter stripped away the seconds.
They had almost reached the optimal release point for the drones.
And if something went wrong? If the Scramblers activated prematurely? If he was unable to turn his aircraft out of the Scramblers' reach with sufficient speed? If the effective range of the Scramblers proved even greater than projected? If ground control brought his aircraft back on the automatic flight controls, with a terrible cargo? There were so many ifs. The Scramblers had never even had a real field trial — it would have been impossible. And the experiments on animals could not be regarded as conclusive.
The thought that the Scramblers might touch back at him, might caress him, their appointed master, with their power, left him physically unsteady and incapable of rigorous thought.
He glanced again at the monitor. Within half an hour of touching down, the Americans' automatic camouflage systems had done a surprisingly good job of hiding the aircraft — even though it was evident that the mechanical measures had not been designed with the anomalies of a snow-covered landscape in mind. Of course, the Scramblers would affect everything over a huge area — but it was reassuring to know that the prime target was exactly where the transmissions had promised it would be.
"Sir?" A sudden cry turned Noguchi's head. The voice was that of the copilot beside him, squeezed up the scale of fear.
"What is it?" Noguchi asked savagely.
The man's eyes were impossibly wide with fear.
"It's time, it's time."
Panic razored through Noguchi. But when he turned back to the instrumentation panel, he saw that there were still several seconds left. His copilot had lost control. Unforgivably. Like a woman or a child.
"Shut up, you fool," Noguchi told him. But he did not look back at the man. He remained afraid that his face might reflect too much of the weakness revealed on his subordinate's features.
Noguchi struggled to steady himself. But the mental images challenged him again, attacking his last selfdiscipline with visions of the condition in which a faulty application of the Scramblers might leave him.
No. No, he could not bear to live like that.
A thousand times better to die.
He locked his eyes on the digital counter, finger poised on the sensor control that would release the drones. Seven.
All my life Six.
I have been Five.
aimed like an arrow
Four.
toward
Three.
this
Two.
moment.
One.
"Banzai," Noguchi screamed, tearing his throat.
He touched the release sensor.
"Banzai," he screamed again.
"Banzai," his crew echoed through the intercom.