Weapons of choice

"Thanks. I'll take an extra two. Call me if I'm needed."

As she signed off an alarm sounded in the distance, calling for a crash team. Francois checked her pad: a cardiac arrest in the next ward. She brought the patient's file up. An eighty-five-year-old white female from Cabanatuan.

Not a chance, she thought. The wrinklies, it seemed as if they just gave up on you as soon as they realized they were safe. It was like they'd had something to prove, getting out of that shithole, and then they checked out.

Her eyes burned as she headed back to the temporary cabin she'd taken. The short walk took her through a corridor so crowded with civilians and refugees and a disorderly mix of military personnel that she could have been in the emergency room of a public hospital. She closed the door of her small quarters with relief.

The girl was on her bunk, playing with a Mars Landing Barbie one of the marines had dug up from somewhere. She hadn't spoken again since the camp, but warm and washed and safely tucked up in bed, she favored Margie with a genuine smile.

"Hello, darlin'," said Francois.

She knew from talking to other inmates of Camp 5 that the little girl's name was Grace, and that was all. Nobody knew anything about what had happened to her parents.

The child looked much less feral than she had on Luzon. She was still underweight, and she couldn't stand having the lights out, but Francois was pleased with her progress.

"Would you like a drink, Gracie? Some bug juice?" She smiled.

The girl nodded.

Francois poured her a cup of the vile-tasting cordial.

She stroked Gracie's thin, blond hair as she drank. She really needed to sleep, but now that she was back in the cabin and the kid was awake, she didn't think she'd be able to. She didn't like palming her off on anybody else, and truth be known, Grace threw a fit whenever she tried.

As she stroked Grace's forehead, which was still scarred by deep cuts and bruises, the girl suddenly grabbed her hand. Her little voice was no more than a squeak.

"My daddy stayed with General MacArthur to help keep the lights on."

Francois's heart leapt. She hadn't expected anything like this for weeks, maybe months. It was the best thing she'd heard in days. She positively beamed, until the girl spoke again.

"Mommy and Daddy aren't coming back, are they? They shot my mommy, I think."

Her momentary spasm of joy died. She couldn't find an answer that wouldn't crush the little mite's spirit. Part of the reason she was cruising the edge of exhaustion was all the extra time she'd put into trying to get a line on what might have become of the girl's family. Now, it seemed, she had an inkling of their fate. She arranged her features as neutrally as she could.

"I don't know, honey, but I think maybe they're with God now. Did someone tell you about your mom?"

The girl's lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head. Margie, choking up, too, rubbed her cheek.

"But the thing is, darling, I know your mom and dad are happy now, because if they're looking down from Heaven, they can see you're safe here with us. And all they would ever want in the world is for you to grow up safe."

Grace gathered her composure by means of three gulping breaths. When she could talk without crying she looked into Margie's eyes. "When I grow up," she said, "I want to be a United States Marine, just like you."

Margie pursed her lips and nodded. She patted down Grace's hair, kissed her forehead, and turned away.

"Excuse me for just a second, sweetie," she said thickly.

She jumped up and hurried out into the corridor.

When the door to her cabin was closed, she sank to the floor and burst into tears.

The fierce heat reminded Kolhammer of the days they'd spent off Timor preparing for deployment. He was a universe away from that now. But home seemed as tangible as the salt in the air. Einstein had told him it really was that close; that his wife and home were closer to him than the shirt on his back. But Kolhammer peered through dark sunglasses at the huge straggling convoy of antique vessels, a scene that appeared nearly medieval to his eyes, and he knew that he would never see Marie again.

He kept one eye on the screen where an icon representing the Sutanto plowed toward them from the east. When they rendezvoused, the Indonesian would have to turn around and cover her tracks, but he couldn't blame them for not wanting to spend another minute out there on their own. They'd had a hell of time of it, judging by the video the Raptors had brought back. The little tub had been comprehensively shot to hell. He had to admit that he might have been wrong about them, though, because they'd fought through.

"Thinking of home, Admiral?" asked Spruance.