• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 677 0

little semblance to the reality on the ground. In fairness, even digital-age cartographers had no way of calculating the spatial impact of every rise, fall, and switchback in the terrain. In planning the mission, he and Captain Wilson had multiplied all their estimates by two, a variable that seemed to generally work, and though this mathematical adjustment was never far from Driscoll’s mind, realizing that their hump to the LZ was not in fact three klicks but closer to six—almost four miles—was almost enough to bring a string of curses to his lips. He quashed the impulse. It wouldn’t do them any good. Might even do a little harm, showing a crack in front of the team. Even if their eyes weren’t on him every minute, each of his Rangers was taking his cues from him. Both shit and attitude did indeed roll downhill.

Walking point, Tait stopped and held up a closed fist, bringing the staggered column to a halt. Driscoll dropped into a crouch, as did the rest of the team in near unison. Down the line, M4s came around, each man taking a sector, eyes watching and ears listening. They were in a narrow canyon—so narrow, Driscoll doubted the ten-foot-wide ravine actually qualified as a canyon—but they had little choice. It was either take this three-hundred-meter shortcut or tack another two klicks onto their route and risk a daylight pickup. They’d heard and seen nothing since the ambush, but that didn’t mean much. The URC knew this ground better than anyone, and knew from experience how long it took pack-laden soldiers to cover it. Worse still, they knew there were a limited number of LZs from which the enemy could be retrieved. From there, setting up another ambush was simply a matter of doing the math of moving faster than your quarry.

Without turning, Tait gave Driscoll the underhand move up signal. Driscoll did so. “What’s up?” he whispered.

“Coming to the end. Another thirty meters or so.”

Driscoll turned around, pointed at Barnes, held up two fingers, then gave the move up signal. Barnes, Young, and Gomez were there in ten seconds. “End of the ravine,” Driscoll explained. “See what there is to see.”

“Right, boss.”

They moved off. Behind Driscoll came Collins’s voice: “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.” The six ibuprofen Collins had given him had taken the edge off, but every jostle sent ripples of pain through his shoulder, back, and neck.

“Get your pack off.” Collins didn’t wait for Driscoll to protest, slipping off the shoulder strap. “Bleeding’s slowed. You feel your fingers?”

“Yeah.”

“Move ’em.”

Driscoll flipped him the bird and grinned. “How’s that?”

“Touch each finger to your thumb.”

“Jesus, Collins—”

“Do it.” Driscoll complied, but each of his fingers moved sluggishly, as though rusted at the joint. “Get your pack off. I’m distributing your load.” Driscoll opened his mouth to protest, but the medic cut him off. “Look, you keep that pack on, you can just about count on losing that arm later. Good chance you already got some nerve damage, and that sixty pounds ain’t helping.”

“Okay, okay …”

Barnes, Young, and Gomez returned. Collins handed the pack to Barnes, who went back down the line to divide up the contents. Young reported to Driscoll, “Didn’t see nothing, but something’s moving out there. Heard a truck engine about half a klick to the west.”

“Okay, back in line. Collins, you, too.”

Driscoll pulled out the map and clicked on his red-hooded penlight. Not exactly standard-issue, but as good as their NV was for most things, it was shit for reading maps. Some old-school habits were hard to break; some shouldn’t be broken at all.

Tait scooted closer. Driscoll traced his finger along the ravine in which they sat; at its terminus was yet another canyon bordered on both sides by plateaus. The terrain was, Driscoll thought, not unlike an urban neighborhood: canyons were the main roads; plateaus the houses; and ravines the back alleys. They were essentially dashing across the roads, using the alleys between the houses to reach the airport. Or in this case, the heliport. Two more canyons, one more ravine, he thought,