World War III

Caffey flicked his walkie-talkie to transmit. He looked for Parsons’s position even though he knew he couldn’t see it. Parsons and PFC Merano manned one of the two machine guns in the thicket on the east side ‘ of the breaker a hundred and fifty yards away. The other was on the west side, offset so they wouldn’t be shooting each other in the crossfire.

“Able, we just spotted the point,” Caffey said. “They’re about a mile and a quarter from your position.”

The talkie squelched slightly as Parsons’s voice came back. “Yeah, we can hear it. Snowmobile.”

“Sit tight. Let the point through.”

“Right.”

Caffey searched the treeline across the breaker to the west. “Baker? You copy?”

“Yes, sir, Colonel. We wait for your signal.”

“Good boy. Charlie?”

The pilot didn’t respond immediately. “Charlie, here.”

“No screwing around, Lieutenant. Fast, low and out. Hit your primary and go. I need you guys.”

“We need us guys, too,” came the reply. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll kick their balls off.”

Caffey set the talkie aside. He looked at Kate. “How about you?”

She gave a faint nod. “If you mean am I scared, Jake, you bet your ass I am. Right down to my wet little jockey shorts.” She patted the muzzle of her M-16. “But I’m ready.”

“Sorry you came?”

“And miss this show?” She shook her head. “Can you imagine what the ERA supporters could do with this bit of propaganda? First woman combatant? Christ, they’ll probably make me head of the first all-woman regiment.”

“Just don I be the first all-woman statistic,” Caffey said. He glanced at her weapon. “And don’t grip the damn thing so tight. Remember, short bursts. Pick your targets. When it starts I’m not going to have time to give you lessons.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Kate snapped. “I know how to shoot an M-16. I took the course.”

Caffey raised the binoculars. “Yeah, well, these aren’t cardboard silhouettes, Kate. They shoot back… and they’re pretty fucking good at it.”

“I’ll do my share.”

“Good.” Caffey squinted into the binoculars. “Because here they come.” He held the talkie beside his mouth as he studied the distant movement in the breaker. “Able, Baker… the point should be passing you right about now. The main body is about eight hundred yards behind. The tracks are leading. The infantry is marching in four columns. Christ, they’ve even got their weapons shouldered. They’re gonna walk straight into it.”

“The point’s passing me now,” Parsons said. “I think the sonofabitch is whistling!”

“We’ll give him a danse macabre to keep time to in a minute,” Caffey said. “Stand by.” He slid the radio into his jacket. “All right, Kate. Time to go. You know where I want you.”

“West side of the pump house. Yeah, I know.”

“And for chrissake, Kate, keep your head down.” He touched her face. “Please?”

She took his hand and squeezed it, then turned and started down the iron ladder, the M-16 strapped across her back. “This is when the fair young maid turns to the hero,” she called to him above the sound of the regulator, “as they are being led to the bottomless pit, and says, ‘Whatever happens, you know that I will always love you.’” She hopped off the last rung and hit the floor with a dull echo. Kate looked up at him through the catwalks grating. “I have something to tell you that I might not have a chance to say later.”

“What?” he said.

She smiled devilishly. “You’re a prick, Jake Caffey. I hope that bitch Nancy does divorce you. You deserve worse.”

Caffey nodded. Then she was gone.

He took up the binoculars and watched the column’s steady advance along the breaker, into the choke point. What a goddamn place to fall in love, he thought.

Vorashin tromped along with his troops, Sergei Devenko at his side. He could see the snow-covered buildings another hundred yards ahead. They’d made it, and almost without a scratch. He glanced over his shoulder. The wind had died to almost nothing. The sun was struggling to get through the overcast.

The storm was all but a memory. There would be no air strike now, he knew, even if it were a perfectly clear day. The Americans would not attempt to attack them with fighter bombers once they’d reached their objective, and a heavily reinforced infantry would serve no useful purpose. Destroying the task force would only mean the destruction of the pipeline as well. And the Americans would not allow that.

That had been the plan. And it had worked. It meant the negotiations would begin in earnest now. It meant his people would not starve, because the Americans had no choice but to negotiate. It meant there would be no war.

Vorashin smiled to himself. It had been a long march. It had been four hard days of grueling weather, costly interruptions and occasional doubt, but it was over and the proof was before him — a deserted pipeline station that even the second most powerful nation in the world could not reach in time to defend. Now they would rest. The fighting was over. The Americans were beaten.