Lieutanant Amata couldn’t tell whether his ears felt numb more from the cold or from the sonic assault of the fighter’s start-up. He drank his whiskey, mentally comparing his motor grader to the fighter plane named Yukikaze, then sighed. They shared only one common feature: they both ran on liquid fuel. Aside from that Yukikaze excelled in every way. Loaded with bombs, she would weigh nearly thirty tons. The grader weighed only sixteen. The plane could generate nearly thirty tons of thrust, while he could just about manage 300 horsepower. The fighter was magnificent, while the plow was just lame. The same could probably be said of their operators as well.
“Thanks for the help out here.”
Amata started. Outside the door, the superior officer who had signaled him before was looking up at the grader’s cabin. Amata kicked the door open and looked down.
The man from the SAF had a deep scar on his cheek. His rank insignia indicated that he was a major.
Amata’s throat closed up from the cold. His lungs seemed paralyzed for an instant. The freezing air stung his eyes. He blinked, inhaled even though it hurt to do so, and snapped, “How long are you going to make me wait? Sir…”
“Sorry,” the man replied. “Major Booker from the SAF.” He squinted up at Amata. “You been drinking?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you do your job?”
“Yeah, if you’d let me. If I don’t get to it soon, I won’t have any time to rest up before my next shift.”
“Can you plow the runway straight when you’re sotted?”
Plowing the runway involved several motor graders driving abreast, with rotary plows working on both sides to push the snow collected by the graders off to the side of the runway.
“Don’t worry. A beacon signal keeps the graders driving straight. I don’t even have to hold the wheel. Funny, huh? I don’t even need to be here.” His voice grew tight. “And for that, they made me a hero.”
“So, that’s who you are,” said Major Booker, staring at him. “You’re the famous Lieutenant Amata.”
“None other. What, are you shocked?”
“You reek of alcohol. How fitting for a hero.”
“Yeah,” the lieutenant answered. Then suddenly, he was moved to tears, tears he wasn’t even aware he was shedding. “I can’t help it. It’s all that medal’s fault… It’s cut me off from all my friends. If I keep quiet, they rag on me. If I speak, they resent me. No matter what I do or don’t do, I’m cut off from everyone else. It’s not like I was really close to any of ’em, but they’re all I had. And there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s all—” He choked back the bile that rose in his throat, tasting blood. He tried washing it down with a slug of whiskey, gagged, and spat it outside the cabin. A reddish brown stain spread across the surface of the snow. Guess I really don’t have much longer, he thought.
“Hey, are you okay? That’s blood, isn’t it?”
For some reason, the concern in the major’s voice infuriated Amata.
“It’s none of your business. Even the doctor told me to just do whatever the hell I want to at this point. It’s just, I…I wish I could get that sonuvabitch who gave me that medal.”
“And who is that?”
“I’m a grunt, how the hell would I know?” he wheezed with his frozen breath. “You’re a major in the SAF, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” replied the man, taking his sunglasses from his pocket, obviously getting ready to leave.
“Well, I have a favor to ask,” Amata said desperately. “They say the SAF is so powerful that it’s practically a shadow of the FAF high command. You could find out who awarded me the medal, couldn’t you? Please, Major… I want to get rid of this thing.”
“Even I couldn’t do that.”
“Figures. Forget I even mentioned it. Just order those guys to finish up and move it.” Amata pointed at the ten or so soldiers who were struggling with heavy looking snow shovels. “It’s cold. I’m gonna freeze to death out here.”
“Sure,” the major said, putting his sunglasses on. He paused, then looked up at the cabin and said, “I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
“Then how about hurrying up and giving that order?”
“I was talking about the medal.”
“What?”
Amata switched the grader’s engine from idle to intermittent start mode. The warmed-up engine stopped. It grew quiet. The wind stabbed at his ears. He wasn’t wearing earmuffs, and they ached as though they were going to fall to pieces.
“What did you say?”
“I was talking about your medal. I’m a little interested in it myself. There’s definitely something odd about you being given that decoration. I’d also like to know what the general staff were thinking.”
Amata stared at Major Booker. There was no sign of mockery or jealousy or resentment in his expression. His tone of voice was indifferent. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t sympathizing with him, but he didn’t despise him, either. Amata felt like he’d been saved.
“Please, Major,” he said in a low, shaking voice.
“I’m in the SAF 5th. Boomerang Squadron. Just be aware that I probably won’t be able to unravel this on my own, and I have a feeling FAF military intelligence is going to get involved before it’s over.”
“All I’m asking is for you to try. I’m glad I ran into you, sir.”
“If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. Anyway, you look cold, so shut that door. You’re shaking.”
“Th-Thank you, sir.” It had been so long since he’d spoken those words that he’d nearly forgotten them.
Lieutenant Amata sniffed the mucus running from his nose. It hurt to do it. He wiped it with his glove, and it froze white instantly. He shut the door, stepped on the heavy clutch, and put the machine into gear.
Suddenly, the dead white winter landscape took on the hint of a golden hue. Was it the sunlight? Probably just the jaundice in his eyes. I should wear sunglasses too, he thought. He wasn’t going to give up and die like this. He was going to give that medal back. He’d speak directly to whomever it was, throw the medal in his face, and then deck him. Whatever happened, he had to stay alive until then.
Believing that Major Booker would somehow find out who was responsible for putting him in this living hell, Amata set off in the grader. He had found his one and only ally and felt an immense relief in finally having done so. So long as the major didn’t betray him, he would stay alive.
As usual, the wind was blowing in through the gap at the bottom of the door. Even if he cleared up the thing with the medal, there was probably nothing he could do about that. Amata sniffed and lowered the plow at the front of the grader. It was cold. Spring was still far away. It might never come. The plow tore through the clods of snow, the flakes fluttering through the air like flower petals in bloom.
MAJOR JAMES BOOKER (Tactical Air Force, Tactical Combat Group, Special Air Force) was attached to SAF-V, Boomerang Squadron, the unit said to be the most nihilistic in the entire air force. He himself was laconic, a tough officer, with a physical presence that inspired fear and aversion in most people. But in truth, he was possessed of a moderate nature.
After dismissing the grumbling Boomerang soldiers from their snow removal duty, the major thankfully returned to the warm underground of the base. He removed his fogged-up sunglasses, proceeded to the locker room, and quickly stripped off his cold-weather gear, which was now soaked from the melted snow and ice that had encrusted him during his work. His feet were cold almost beyond endurance.
He thought about Lieutenant Amata. Day in and day out, week after grinding week, the man had to deal with this unrelenting cold. He really does deserve a medal for it, the major thought. But even so, the Order of Mars was an entirely inappropriate decoration. The fact that it had been awarded to Amata was just bizarre.