All of the self-righteous rituals, the self-denials, had been sins against her. He knew what she wanted. She wanted him to live. To go on. But he had defied her, nourishing his delicious guilt, forever ripping the scabs off the sores in his spirit. It had been for himself, all of it. The fortress of sacrifice in which he hid from life. And the killings, the killings, the killings.
Mira had never asked for that. Not for any of it. Mira had never asked for anything but love. And he had conditioned the boy to ask for even less.
Impulsively, he pulled his wallet from a hind pocket of his uniform. His fingers probed behind an identification card and a driver's license, reaching into the darkness where the photograph had lain hidden for so long. The ancient wallet began to tear at the unaccustomed stress on its seams.
The wrinkling and discoloration of the photograph disappeared in a moment's recognition. Mira. The boy. The sort of smile a good heart musters at the end of a long, hot afternoon. He had thought he remembered each detail of the photo, each nuance of light. But he had been wrong. He had forgotten how beautiful Mira had been. He had forgotten the boy's smallness, the mild unwillingness to look at the camera or the man behind it. He had forgotten so much.
Forgive me, he said. And he began to tear the photograph into tiny flakes, starting with an upper corner and going methodically about the business, ensuring that no man would get an inkling of the nature of the waste as the aircraft was groomed in the wake of battle.
The copilot looked back over his shoulder at Heifetz. For a moment it seemed as though he were about to speak. Then he thought better of it and turned his attention back to the controls.
Colonel Noguchi sat behind the controls of his aircraft. He felt ready, fierce, vindicated. They had needed him after all. Old Noburu, with his womanly niceties, had been swept aside by the course of events. It was time for new men to enter the field. It was time for the new machines.
The Americans had blundered. He, too, had been surprised to learn who his new enemies were. But it did not natter. In fact, it was better. The Americans had not earned their lesson. Now he would teach it to them with unforgettable clarity.
Some young American officer had given the game away. Slabbering naively on the airwaves. Telling everything. The city: Orsk. The name of the assembly area: Silver. Even revealing his personal feelings. It was unthinkable to Noguchi that an officer would betray his emotions to his subordinates.
Direction-finding based upon intercepts was, of course, far more difficult than it had been in decades past, thanks to ultra-agile communications means and spoofer technology. But, for every technological development in the science of warfare, there was ultimately a counterdevelopment. The Japanese arsenal had been just adequate to crack down the Americans.
Once the intercepts had revealed the general orientation of the American unit, intelligence had been able to steer advanced radars and space-based collectors to the enemy's vicinity. The new American systems proved to be very, very good. Unexpectedly good. Even the most advanced radars could not detect them from the front or sides. But the rear hemisphere of the aircraft proved more vulnerable. The returns were weak — but readable, once you knew what you were looking for.
Now the enemy's location was constantly updated by relay, and Noguchi was able to follow the Americans quietly as he led his flight of aircraft in pursuit. He would have liked to see one of the new enemy systems with his own eyes, out of professional curiosity. But he certainly was not going to get that close. Noguchi believed that he had conquered his innate fears of battle, that he had turned himself into a model warrior. But once the Scrambler drones were released from the standoff position, he had every intention of leaving the area as swiftly as his aircraft could fly.
"This is Five-five Echo." A young voice. Earnest. Frightened. "I've got to put her down. The control system's breaking down."
"Roger," Taylor answered calmly, struggling to conceal the depth of his concern from the pilot of the troubled escort ship. "Just go in easy. We'll fly cover until you're on the ground. Break. Five-five Mike, you cover from noon to six o'clock. We'll take six to midnight, over."
"Roger."
"This is Echo. I've got a ville coming up in front of me."
"Stay away from the built-up area," Taylor ordered.
"I can't control this thing."
"Easy now. Easy."
"We're going down." The escort pilot's voice was stripped down to a level of raw fear that Taylor had heard no more than a dozen times in his career. The first time had been on a clear morning in Africa, and the voice had been his own.
"Easy," was all he could say. "Try to keep her under control."
"— going down—"
The station dropped from the net.
"Merry. Hank. Get a clear image of the site. Get a good fix on him." Taylor switched hurriedly to the regimental command net. "Sierra one-three, this is Sierra five-five. Over."
For a nervous moment, the answer failed to come. Then Heifetz's voice responded:
"Sierra five-five, this is Sierra three-one. Over."
"You've got the wheel again. I've got a bird down. Over."
Even now, Taylor could not help feeling a twinge of injured vanity. The sole M-100 that had gone down, for any reason, had been one of his two escort ships. Although the escort ships were responsible for his safety, he was also, unmistakably, responsible for theirs as well. And the loss was clearly his fault. For going after the enemy fast movers. He had asked too much of the M-l00s.
"The one that was having trouble?" Heifetz asked. "Roger. Not sure what happened. We're putting down to evacuate the crew."
"Anything further?"
"Just keep everybody moving toward the assembly areas," Taylor said. "Looks like I'm going to be coming in a little late. Over."
"Roger. See you at Silver," Heifetz said.
"See you at Silver. Out."
Good old Lucky Dave, Taylor thought. Thank God for him.
The assistant S-3 had locked the image of the downed craft on the central ops monitor. It looked like the bird had gone in hard. There was a noticeable crumpling in the fuselage, and shards of metal were strewn across the snow. But the main compartment of the M-100 had held together.
"Five-five Echo, this is Sierra five-five. Over." Taylor gripped the edge of the console, anxious for a response, for a single word to let him know that the crew had survived.
Nothing.
"Oh, shit," Meredith said. "Company."
The officers crowded around the monitor, edging out the nearest NCO. The standoff image showed the wreck about two kilometers outside of a ruined settlement. Small dark shapes had already begun moving toward the downed M-100 from the fringe of buildings.
"What do you think, Merry?"
"Personnel carriers. Old models. Soviet production."
"Any chance they're friendlies?"
"Nope," Meredith said immediately. "Not down here. Those are bad guys."
As if they had overheard the conversation, the personnel carriers began to send streaks of light toward the crash site.