Stephen Coonts - Combat

Frankie’s tone turned to disgust. “Don’t make some big drama out of it, man. She was a disgrace to our people. Our country’s going to be built on racial purity. Outsiders don’t understand. We can’t allow genetic pollution. None of their filth. And no Turk filth, either.” Frankie glanced at Scarface. “Look at Ivo here. He was her goddamned cousin, man. And he was all for blowing her fucking head off. He under stands.”

“You’re sick,” Green repeated.

“Yeah? And you’re going to be dead.”

In despair, Green spoke aloud to himself. “What … in the name of God … is this all about?”

Frankie grinned. “Which God? Ours, or theirs?”

“Nothing personal,” Frankie told him as they went down the trail in the darkness. Scarface walked point, weapon at the ready. Green followed. Frankie brought up the rear. A three-quarter moon lit the path where it broke out of the trees. The fields shone silver. Frankie spoke in a softened voice, as though listening for danger all the while. “You’re a sacrifice for a greater cause. You should be proud.”

“Fuck you.”

Frankie gave a snorting laugh. “Yeah, well. We owe you. I got to admit. Maybe we’ll put up a little monument to you somewhere when all this is over. ‘Major Jeff Green, who brought America into the war and rescued our people with his sacrifice.’ Kind of nice, when you think about it. I mean, what the fuck, man. Your death’s going to have meaning. Not like most of the poor suckers who get wasted around here.”

“America won’t intervene because of one major.”

“Oh, yeah?” They passed through another belt of low pines and a branch caught Green across the mouth. “Anyway,” Frankie went on, “it’s not just you. You’re just going to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. All the atrocities and that shit. Those people have it coming. And your people know it. They just need a little push.”

They marched down the mountainside. Green thought hard. His mind went too fast or too slow, but never just right. Ideas trotted by, then galloped off before he could harness them. And Sergeant Crawley was always with him. Crawley and the girl.

“All this … even the mortars on your own village,” Green said. “It was all staged. To look like the other guys killed us, or kidnapped us, or whatever.”

“Hey, first prize, Mr. Fucking Wizard.”

“And you’re taking me across the border …” Green had trouble getting the next words out, “ … so … you can kill me on their side. So I’ll be found where the guilt will seem indisputable.”

“Man, you should be on Jeopardy! or something. You know I miss American TV? Baywatch and shit. And, by the way, I appreciate your consideration. In not biting it back at the inn. We would have had to lug your dead ass over the mountain, which would have been a significant hassle. And the corpse wouldn’t have been nice and fresh for those UN fucks to find.”

They passed along the high end of a meadow. The autumn night had a scent of rotting apples. Again, the smell of death made Green feel vividly alive.

“And the head? Sergeant Crawley’s—”

“It’ll turn up. We’ll be sure to let your people know.”

Scarface dropped to one knee and readied his rifle. Frankie put a hand on Green’s shoulder and shoved him down. His voice was only a whisper now.

“Fuck around, and you die right here.”

But there was nothing. Only the mountain ghosts.

They came down into a dead world and there was no more talking. The moon had passed its apogee, and the air was colder in the foothills than it had been on the mountainside. Fields of weeds paled with frost. Green put his pride on hold and asked if he could zip up his jacket. His hands were raw with the cold, but he knew he could do nothing about that. Frankie slapped him hard on the back of the head for opening his mouth, but whispered to Scarface to hold up for a minute. Instead of releasing Green’s hands from behind his back, Frankie closed up the jacket himself.

“All comfy?” he asked. “Now shut the fuck up.”

They came to the head of a cart track and Scarface consulted Frankie. Then they both nudged Green into the underbrush.

He wondered how deep into the country they planned to take him before they killed him.

“Got to stay off the roads,” Frankie said. “Lazy fuckers are all sleeping. They aren’t worth shit unless they got artillery behind them. But they drop mines all over the place.”

They skirted a farmhouse, and saw the sky through its burned-out windows. It truly was a dead place, with not even a stray dog. The weather had put down the insects. And if there were forest animals, they had learned to lie low. Black, burned-over patches scarred the fields in the moonlight.

They crossed a stream by stepping on rocks. Ivo got a wet foot and started cursing. Frankie told him to shut up in the same tone he had used on Green.

“I guess you’re some big deal?” Green said. “Local warlord, the big stud back from America.”

“You shut the fuck up, too, smart guy. I told you.”

“What have I got to lose?”

Frankie’s head shook, silhouetted by the fading moonlight. “Man,” he whispered, “you really don’t understand shit, do you? I mean, really? You’ll be begging me. For just one more minute. Just five more seconds of life, man. Everybody does. Except the crazy ones. Like Daniela. The crazy ones know better.” He laughed, pleased at his vision. “But you. You remind me of this old guy. This doctor fuck. Thought that made him safe. He stayed behind in a clinic to take care of their wounded. Then he makes this big scene when we start waxing the fucks. All this big-shot, big-shit dignity of human life crap. I took that shitbird outside myself. And when he finally got it through his skull that all that education and what the fuck wasn’t going to save him, he starts begging. Like some little kid. ‘Please, don’t kill me yet. Oh, please, not yet. Just one more minute, just one more minute.’” Frankie gave Green a punch on the shoulder to get him moving again. “I bet that’s how you’ll be. You still think your fucking passport or the cavalry’s going to rescue you. But you’re already dead, pal.”

Green got the sense that his captors knew the way, but not precisely. Darkness took its toll, and they seemed to wander for a while. He remembered his own confusion at Ranger camp, exhausted in the darkness, trying to follow an azimuth in the mountains of northern Georgia. And he recalled his pride in meaningless achievements. It really was nothing but vanity.

There was no training in the world for this.

The march led past a field of staggered crosses, slapped together from wood scraps. Each cross had two horizontals, the lower one wider.

“We didn’t kill enough of them,” Frankie said.

They came to a hamlet before dawn. The moon was down and the darkness had the texture of flannel. But you could still see that every structure had been destroyed. On both sides of the lane, broken walls rose and rubble narrowed the passage. The earth crunched underfoot.

Frankie and Scarface had a discussion that turned into a spat. Green got the words “patrols” and “stay.” Abruptly, Scarface threw up his hands, giving in. Frankie turned to Green.

“We’re going to hang here and check out some property. Find some little fixer-upper. See if we can get a good deal.”

They went carefully behind the ruins, nervous of booby traps. They sent Green in front now, telling him where to go.

The only structure that offered a decent hiding place was a barn. It stank, although the village must have been destroyed months, if not years, before. But the sky had begun to gray and it was time to go to ground.