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“Cease fire,” the Corporal had ordered. He waited a second, then tossed a grenade when the Grunts gotcloser.
Their ears still ringing, they ran, dragging Cochran with them, and not looking back.
Somehow they had returned to the Warthog, and gotten the hell out of there . . . or, at least, that’s whatthey were trying to do.
“Over there,” Fincher said, and pointed to a clearing in the trees. “That’s got to lead up to the ridge.”
“Go,” Harland said.
The Warthog slid sideways then raced up the embankment, caught air, and landed on soft jungle loam.Fincher dodged a few trees and ran the Warthog up the slope. They emerged on the ridgeline.
“Jesus, that was close,” Harland said. He ran a muddy hand through his hair, slicking it back.
He tapped Fincher on the shoulder. Fincher jumped. “Private, pull over. Try to raise Firebase Bravo onthe narrow band.”
“Yes, sir,” Fincher answered in a wavering voice. He glanced at the near-catatonic Private Walker andshook his head.
Harland checked on Cochran. Private Cochran’s eyes fluttered open, cracking the mud caked onto hisface. “We back yet, Corporal?”
“Almost,” Harland replied. Cochran’s pulse was steady, although his face had, in the last severalminutes, drained of color. The wounded man looked like a corpse.Damn it, Harland thought,he’s goingto bleed out .
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Harland placed a reassuring hand on Cochran’s shoulder. “Hang in there. We’ll patch you up as soon aswe get to camp.”
They had dropships at Bravo. Cochran had a chance, albeit a slim one, if they got him back to thecombat surgeons at headquarters—or better yet, to the Navy docs on the orbiting ships. For a momentHarland was dazzled with visions of clean sheets, hot meals—and a meter of armor between him and theCovenant.
“Nothing but static on the link, sir,” Fincher said, breaking through Harland’s reverie.
“Maybe the radio got hit,” Harland muttered. “You know those explosive needles throw a bunch ofmicroshrapnel. We probably got slivers of that stuff inside us, too.”
Fincher examined his muscular forearms. “Great.”
“Move out,” Harland said.
The tires of the Warthog spun, gripped, and the vehicle moved rapidly along the ridge.
The terrain looked familiar. Harland even spotted three sets of Warthog tracks—yes, this was the waythe Lieutenant had brought them. Ten minutes and they’d be back on base. No more worries. He relaxed,took out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out. He pulled off the safety strip and tapped the end toignite it.
Fincher revved the engine and shot up to the top of the ridge—crossed over, and skidded to halt.
If not for the haze, they would have seen everything from this side of the valley—the lush carpet ofjungle in the valley, the river meandering through it, and on the far set of hills, a clearing dotted withfixed gun emplacements, razor wire, and pre-fab structures: Firebase Bravo.
Their platoon had partially dug into the hillside to minimize the camp’s footprint and provide a placewhere they could safely store their munitions and bunk down. A ring of sensors encircled the camp sonothing could sneak up on them. Radar and motion detectors linked to surface-to-air missile batteries. Aroad ran along the far ridge—three klicks down that was the coastal city, Cote d’Azur.