He dropped the broken limb, hiding it from himself. The snow turned to rain.
He collapsed, falling flat on his back. Cold rain struck his face. He could see that it was still snowing up in the heavens. A white, swirling storm. The stars were falling out of the sky. He felt the cold wetness creeping in through his clothing, chilling his spine, his legs, even as the exposed front portion of his body caught the warmth of the spreading fires. He lay between waking and dreaming, admiring the gales above his head and blinking as the snow turned to rain in its descent and struck him about the eyes.
He waited for the pain, wondering why it would not come.
"I'm all right," he told himself. "I'm all right."
The sound of the bells had stopped. In fact, the world was utterly silent. Yet the flashes continued. The pink wall of firelight climbed so high into the heavens that it seemed to arch over the spot where Murawa lay.
What was wrong? Why couldn't he get up? Why was everything so quiet?
The sky's on fire, he thought.
What was happening?
The fuel dump, he decided lucidly. They've hit the fuel dump. The Iranians had been allowed to manage it themselves, and expecting no further threats from the Russians, they had been careless, neglecting to build earthen revetments or even to disperse the stocks.
It's all burning, he thought resignedly. But why couldn't he get up? It seemed to him that he had almost made it to his feet at his first attempt. But now his muscles would not pay attention to him.
It crossed his mind that they would have to send him home now. Back to Kyoto.
Where was the pain?
Gathering all of his will and physical strength, Murawa hoisted himself up on his good elbow.
Everything was on fire. It was the end of the world. There should have been snow. Or mud. But dust had come up from somewhere. Clouds and cyclones of dust, flamboyantly beautiful. The burning world softened and changed colors through the silken clouds.
He began to choke.
The world had slowed down, as if it were giving him time to catch up. As he watched, a tracked troop carrier near the perimeter of the repair yard rose into the sky, shaking itself apart. He could feel the earth trembling beneath his buttocks.
Ever so slowly, dark metal segments fell back to earth, rebounding slightly before coming to rest.
He was choking. Coughing. But he could not hear himself coughing, and it frightened him.
Yet, it was all very beautiful in the silence. With the universe on fire.
Where was the pain?
He saw a dark figure running, chased by fire. The man was running and dancing ecstatically at the same time, flailing his arms, turning about, dropping to his knees. Then Murawa's eyes focused, and he saw that the man was burning, and that there was no dance.
Murawa collapsed back into the mud created by his own wastes. He wished he had not forgotten his pistol, because he wanted to be dead before the fire reached him.
Lieutenant Colonel John Reno's squadron had nearly completed its sweep along Engagement Area Emerald. Charlie Troop was finishing up the turkey shoot outside of Atbasar, and Alpha and Bravo had reformed into an aerial skirmish line that stretched for thirty nautical miles from flank to flank. His squadron alone had accounted for the destruction of, at latest count, two thousand four hundred and fifty-six enemy combat vehicles or prime support rigs, and they had not lost a single M-100. Reno had read his military history, and it seemed to him that his squadron's attack constituted one of the most lopsided victories on record. His father might have made it to four-star general, but the old bugger had never had such a victory to his credit. It was a glorious day.
There were only two real problems, in Reno's view. First, the regiment's other two squadrons had performed equally well. First Squadron even had a higher kill tally, although it was unfair to count them equally, since First Squadron had been able to run up the numbers by completing the destruction of all the vehicles massed and awaiting repair at the Karaganda yards. Still, there were ways of presenting yourself that made it clear to the media that your accomplishment had actually been the greater. The second problem, however, was considerably more formidable.
Taylor. Reno despised the sonofabitch. Neither did Taylor go to very much trouble to disguise his distaste for John Anthony Reno.
Reno understood why, of course. Taylor was a misfit. A misfit who just happened to have a string of lucky breaks. A misfit who surrounded himself with other misfits. That good-for-nothing kike Heifetz. So superior. After the Jews had gotten their asses kicked into the sea by the ragheads, for God's sake. It was positively unhealthy, the way Heifetz lived all alone in a bare apartment. With no apparent interest in women. And then there was Taylor's kiss-ass black boy, flaunting his red-haired wife in front of everybody all the time. They were like that, though. Always had to marry a white woman to prove they'd made it. Reno grinned, imagining the couple's embraces. Meredith's wife was an exceptionally attractive woman, and it was unfathomable why she would have thrown herself away on that colored ape. What on earth could she see in him? Of course, the worst of them all was that Martinez. A little wetback sand nigger. With a college degree. Fancied himself quite the playboy too. Worthless as a supply officer. No sense of priorities. Wouldn't dream of helping out a brother officer when there was a little problem with the books. Of course, they always went for the jobs like that. So they wouldn't have to mix it up out in the fighting. Why, Martinez was probably fast asleep somewhere, warm and safe. While better men were out doing his fighting for him. No, Taylor was as despicable as he was selfish. Surrounding himself with oddballs. Taylor's staff was a downright embarrassment to the Army. Christ, even the
Russians had picked up on it. Whereas your Russian got along just fine with a man like John Reno. Not that the Russians were anything to write home about.
And what was Taylor going to do? Well, Reno was certain, the sorry old bastard was not about to give credit where credit was due. No, if anything, he'd penalize John Reno just for having the good fortune to be born a general's son, for having a presentable wife from a good old Philadelphia family, for being all of the things that George Taylor could never be. Why, on his mother's side, Reno could trace his military ancestors back to the prerevolutionary frontier militia.
And that was the whole point. Taylor did not understand anything like that. Tradition. Honor. In another age, in a less confused army, Taylor would have been lucky to make sergeant.
And his face. You couldn't even introduce him to anyone. Then there was the rumor about the little tramp back in D.C.
Well, Reno was an insider. And he knew that Taylor had just about peaked. Oh, if this operation continued to go well, he might make brigadier general. But that was really about it. Taylor just didn't look the part of a very senior officer. And he certainly didn't act it. No, Taylor had made too many enemies over the years.
The fact of the matter was simply that the Army did not need characters like that. It continued to amaze Reno that Taylor had made it as far as this.
He had heard it repeated that George Taylor was the type of officer who was always ready to take on the dirty jobs. That hardly surprised Reno, since Taylor struck him as a dirty man.
He let his fantasies run for a moment. The best thing that could happen, of course, would be for Taylor to become a combat casualty. Not necessarily a fatality — since that might turn him into a hero. Just incapacitated. That would mean that Reno, as the senior squadron commander, would take over as acting commander of the regiment on the field of battle. Now that would be an opportunity.