"The old church was big on acts of atonement. I read the diary and saw my real chance to make a personal reparation."
Tears cut sharp trails down Wayne's filthy cheeks. His head sagged.
"But I fouled up even that."
Trennt studied the man with a new sense of commiseration.
"I guess we're all running from some ghost or other."
The clatter interrupted. A sharp, triple rap of wood on wood. Distant, but man-made. Seconds after, another responded far to the right. Then likewise a third, far left.
The three veterans shared a knowing glance.
"They got our number," mused Top, "and by now they know we're not many."
Trennt scanned the distance. Everything appeared deceivingly serene.
"Do they use any kind of organized fighting tactics?"
"Cut you off and pin you down," said Top. "Then the young bucks come—pilled-up and head-on, eager to improve their tribal standing with the scalps they take."
Baker already was working his dagger into deep X-shaped notches on a handful of pistol rounds. "Gonna pay dearly for this ole boy's pelt."
"How far to the crossing?" Trennt asked Top.
"Too far. They'll catch up."
Trennt gazed about the forest. This spot was a decided liability. "Anywhere's better than here. Let's move."
They clawed their way back to exhausted feet and forced themselves on. Their pursuers did likewise, dogging signals echoing every so often. Moving about, one flank ahead, then the other; falling back and shifting leads with an unnerving tempo. But the main thrust stayed solidly behind, driving them on to a final convergence and ambush.
A leaden grayness settled across the woodland. It bled off the steambath fast enough to actually chill the air. High up, a wind began to dip and ruffle the forest canopy. Cresting a brush-cluttered run of hilly saddles, a drizzle was loosened on the escapees. There and then Trennt made a decision. Turning to Baker, he rapped his knuckles against the man's ordnance bag.
"Bring your stuff."
The gunman brightened.
"We gonna make a stand, Jimbo?"
Trennt didn't expound. Instead, he led the shooter to a first thicket-crowned hillock.
"I'm betting the main force will come head-on, through there, like we did. The two flanking groups might converge about there and there. That would give this spot a direct line of ambush over all three. What can you rig up?"
In his swift appraising manner, Baker scrutinized each avenue and hill. He gave a quick litany of assessment.
"Double trip-wire grenades at all three approaches. Head on, two frags. Both short-fused with the zero-zero primers traded from smoke grenades. Each offset to the other to maximize the blast area. Flanks get one napalm grenade each. The fire should light both approaches up for us and hold 'em back 'til those in front are dealt with."
The shooter swung his hand in the arc of an imaginary gun.
"We take out as many as possible from the first station, pop a smoke and fall back to the next, and the next. Same, same. Same, same. All the way out.
"A bonus comes in play at the last bunker. It's a pit that's full of wash-out gravel. Nice an' cupped, an' facin' out forward. We bury my kilo brick of plastique dead center, hook it to a friction fuse and you got the world's largest claymore set to clean house. Then skedaddle out the back door and it's home free."
Trennt nodded his approval. "Get to it."
Baker switched fuses and hooked them to thin filament trip wire. He straightened and loosened the pins for easy removal, then set his grenades low between concealing rocks. At the gravel pit he dug a V-trench. Nestling in the C-4 block, he tamped a heap of stone atop, in the fashion of a shaped charge.
Finished, he returned with a broad smile.
"All set, Jimbo."
Trennt nodded again.
"Good work. Now, gather up the rookies and move out."
Baker's jaw fell. "Pard, you ain't gonna . . ."
"My call. Get going."
"No," Baker protested. "I ain't leavin' you here alone."
"Uh-uh," joined a new voice. "Neither of you stays. Nobody's pulling this detail but me."
Top stood behind them, carbine slung over a shoulder.
"Those newbies need two grunts to get them back. Besides, Cap, you've got more important things to tend." He nodded at Geri, fitfully napping yards behind.
"Up to now I've been minding my own business, like you said, back in the desert. But I'm calling this rap session, if you like it or not. Wise up, Cap. You've been fighting long and hard. But down deep inside you know Buttercup and you are meant for each other. And that's the one solid thing to come from this whole mess. I'll mop this up one-handed. You get her safe and don't ever treat her bad."
The signals echoed again, this time much closer.
"Better boogie on out, now."
Trennt woke Geri and the four gathered up as Top decreed.
"Noah," said Geri, using his proper name, "you be careful."
The old-timer flashed his best smile. "Later, Sunshine."
Baker approached.
"Sure you wanna play this hand alone, Whiskers?"
Top huffed indignantly.
"One Marine is worth a squad of dizzy army pukes any day. The Corps didn't fold at Iwo, Khe-Sanh, or Desert Storm, sonny. It won't here, either. Now sky out. Ricky-tick!"
Baker drew a five-shot, snub-nose revolver from his belt and tossed it ahead.
"Hollow points bolted to 'Plus-P' loads. They'll get'cha home."
The old-timer snatched the backup gun in midair, setting it in his own waistline.
Last to leave, Trennt placed his S-12 and spare clips against a nearby tree.
Top appraised the gesture. "Might need that yourself."
Trennt tapped his holster. "Got enough."
They shared a fraternal, brothers-in-arms nod.
"Dee-dee on out, Cap. I got this gig covered. No sweat."
"We'll wait at the truck," Trennt declared.
"Right on. I'll dazzle 'em with some hard core fire and movement; then book myself. Be right behind you."
The old Marine looked Trennt firm in the eye.
"More important, you remember what I said. Hear me?"
Trennt nodded. "Watch your six."
Top flashed his odd, split-finger hand sign, same as the first time they'd met.
"Peace, dude. Keep on truckin'."
Trennt stepped away. The brush between them swished closed brusquely, like the curtains on a play's final act. He glanced behind after only a few steps. But even then the barrier was already back in place, as if nothing existed there.
Alone, Top set out his banana clips. After last night's skirmish, he had barely enough shells to fill one and half of another.
He loaded his SKS, setting it and the spare clip on the first rise. Beside it rested the pair of smoke grenades. He'd follow Trennt's plan: primary ambush site here, the secondary would be one back with the automatic shotgun and its stuffing of double-aught buck. Last stop would be the gravel sump and sand hill, where he'd bail out and let the magic of chemical energy take over.
Sequence fixed in his head, Top settled in behind the snarled weave of camouflaging branches and waited. In twenty minutes, the drizzle became a shower. Fifteen minutes more and he saw them coming. A lot of them; a platoon-sized group, maybe more. Cutthroat faces were ritually blackened with charcoal and painted for war in signs of the zodiac. Even from this distance he could see drug-stoked flames of murder glowing hotly in their eyes. Not a smiling face in the bunch.
The frontrunners had guns; those behind, a mix of spears and axes, machetes, and skinning knives. Top clutched the ancient SKS, set his eye to its shallow V-sight and waited for the trip wires to start the ball.
The left flank erupted in a greasy orange mushroom. A pair of human torches burst forth, filling the air with ghastly feral screams.
One of the frags blew at twelve o'clock. Then the other. But nothing triggered on the right. The gooners had somehow gotten past Baker's final trip wire.
Top spun that way and cut loose with his carbine. The soaked brush split and sprayed from his impacting rounds. Deep in the green foliage a silhouette bucked and fell. Three others jerked and slumped.
Now, though, the main force was regrouping and the first probing shots of return fire sang wildly toward him. Top squeezed off a handful of answering rounds. Again, his marksmanship was superior. Unfortunately, the heavy wet air was throwing in its lot with his adversaries. It condensed and collected his powder smoke in a twirling signpost overhead, drawing gooner slugs ever closer.
Seconds more and Top's weapon clicked empty on its first magazine. He yanked the sizzling clip free and jammed in its only replacement. Fifteen more precious rounds and his faithful SKS would be silenced for good. Time to pop his smokes.
The gooners started to advance under daring, one- and two-man charges. These Top dispatched as the curtain of orange smoke merged and settled protectively about. Too soon though, his final 7.62 mm round left the skillet-hot carbine. Affectionately regarding the useless weapon for a moment, he scampered to the next fighting hole.
The old Marine snatched up Trennt's S-12 as new footsteps charged after. Firing point-blank into the heavy orange wall, 10-gauge loads punched quick holes toward more invisible attackers. The ground thumped with additional enemy dead. Yet still more were coming. And faster.
Shotgun in hand, Top scrambled for the plastique charge. Cresting the hill, a lucky gooner round ricocheted off a rock at his feet, spun up, and slapped him in the shoulder. He twirled at the bite, nearly dropping the weapon.
Damn, another heart! he thought.
Top bounced into the gravel sump and grabbed at the waiting friction fuse. But the sweat-slick fingers of one hand struggled futilely to mate with those gone icy-numb in his other. The starter slipped though his grip again and again.
A raging scream sounded above him. Top jerked up from his work and looked straight into a snarling, warpainted face of sharpened, snapping teeth.
He thrust his shotgun at a chopping machete. The killer blade glanced off the S-12's receiver, dislodging a thick curl of shaved aluminum. Top instinctively countered with a butt stroke into the savage, chomping mouth.
The attacker collapsed, broken-jawed, at his feet. Yet a bolt of scalding pain also tore through the old-timer's injured shoulder and the shotgun slid for good from his ruined grip.
Top took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the friction lighter. Setting the matte-colored cylinder between his teeth, he clamped tight and yanked the pull ring with his good hand. A "tick" of igniting primer compound sounded, followed by a lazy satisfying hiss of smoldering fuse. Twenty seconds now.
Top drew Baker's five-shot revolver as a new gooner face appeared before him. In a moment another was alongside. The little Colt dispatched both with a pair of hot .38-caliber slugs.
The shower was becoming a cold rain. It started to beat serious pockets of visibility in Top's smoke cover. Enemy bullets landed closer by the second. It was time to scoot.
He tucked the revolver in his belt and set his good hand to scooping a quick path over the hill. Near the crest a second round bit the old Marine, tearing deep in the back of a thigh.
Two, make an oak leaf cluster, Top thought, awarding himself another medal.
Top strained impossibly at cresting the hill. The leg was trashed. Cleaved through the hamstring, it folded under and he slid helplessly back into the pit.
Barely reaching its bottom, he faced a new pair of daring attackers. With honed machetes cocked and wanting his head for a trophy, they dove ahead. Two more shots ended their threat.
Top stoked a deep breath and tried evacuating again. It was no good. More than a couple of feeble steps up the incline were beyond him. He looked to the charge's shortening fuse, then drew back his shattered arm and leg to sit beside it.
In seconds, more heathen faces flashed over the hill. Aiming his final slug, the old Marine shouted defiantly above their war yells; something none of his attackers would understand.
"Three hearts means a trip home! SEMPER FI, YOU MOTHERS!"
They'd listened to the pulses of grenades and staccato of distant gunfire. No one spoke. Yet everyone kept track of the shots, marking each new silence with Top's retreat to the next foxhole, and the next.
The impatient
Ker-Chug!
of detonating high explosive grumbled hopefully across the landscape. But the utter silence afterward confirmed the dismal outcome.
They paused, all silently facing the unseen carnage.
Geri slapped filthy hands to her face.
"Oh, Top! You too!"
Trennt felt his own stomach knot in loss. He sighed a grievous breath and set an encouraging hand to her shoulder.
"He did it for us," he urged. "Come on, let's go."
Geri dragged dirty fingers across her eyes and continued.
Between catnaps they forged on, continuous rain blending day and night into a single erratic blur. Fighting the terrain and their own spent bodies, instinct had pushed them beyond all caution.
The rain finally stopped. Night was slowly graying to day. Ahead was a break in the forest and beyond the savannah loomed, broad and inviting. With time enough to still cross the chemical flats, they rushed wildly ahead.
The ambush was sprung before they could stop.
"Halt!"
Soviet riflemen appeared. The escapees were nailed dead to rights and numbly raised their hands in surrender. Red infantrymen disarmed the captives. From behind Major Dobruja approached, patiently examining each face.
"Surprised to see us, eh? Understandable. But the camp fool—Fibs, I believe—shared thoughts similar to your own, on crossing these very flats; along with the wild tale of that automatic airplane. I realize now that he was more intelligent than people gave him credit for. Probably should not have been so hard on him myself."
The major appreciatively examined the captured heap of handmade crossing gear.