They’d almost made it to the base when they saw some forms approaching quickly through the gloom. The men in the front trucks raised their weapons and prepared to fire, but held up long enough to establish that the soldiers were government troops fleeing the base. The fortress had been overrun, and the enemy was approaching quickly. This entire valley would belong to the rebels by sunrise.
The captain had a tough decision. There was no room for his trucks to turn around on these narrow mountain roads, and he could scarcely order them to back downhill in the rain. At the same time, moving forward was suicide. Reluctantly, he decided to make a stand where he was. He radioed back to headquarters, informing them of his predicament and begging for help. Headquarters was noncommittal, saying they would do what they could, when they could. The convoy was on its own.
The captain gave orders for his men to leave the trucks and take up positions in front and to either side. At the same time, he gave orders to ready the convoy for demolition, should the Ruchinks overcome them. These supplies must not fall into enemy hands.
Hawker didn’t bother worrying about those considerations. While it was true he had the authority to order the trucks blown up, there were still a captain, a lieutenant and several sergeants ranking above him to make that decision. As long as any of them was alive, he could let them have the responsibility. He was particularly responsible for making sure the men behaved well under fire, and this was his first real opportunity to test himself and them.
The refugees from the captured fortress came in waves, now. Some of them were fleeing so fast they ran right past the convoy’s barricade, but most slowed their flight and ended up joining the lines of defense. The additional support made Hawker feel slightly more confident, but the situation would still be touchy. Everything depended on how badly the enemy had depleted its own troops in taking the base; if the Ruchinks were too badly hurt themselves, perhaps they wouldn’t follow up on their victory and keep their opponents on the run.
Perhaps. Hawker had learned by now not to live on such fragile hopes.
As he’d feared, the rebels did want to pursue the battle and keep the loyalists running. Even before Hawker could catch sight of the enemy, his comrades at the other side of the line had opened fire on the advancing soldiers. The rainy atmosphere was soon peppered with the sound of gunshots, and Hawker could hear stray bullets whizzing past his location. He told the men around him to hold their fire until they had a clearer target—but it wasn’t long before the enemy came into view, advancing slowly through the gloom of a drizzly dusk.
The fighting continued on and off for half an hour, but it was very clear to Hawker that it was little more than a holding action; the Ruchinks had superior manpower, and were just waiting for the proper moment to regroup and make their decisive charge. Unless the convoy could be reinforced by air strikes, there was little to prevent their position from being overrun—and home base was still diddling around about committing themselves to support this rearguard action. Hawker had been in the army long enough to know when he was considered expendable—and he didn’t much like it.
The battlefield suddenly grew ominously still as the Ruchinks ceased firing for several minutes and drew back slightly from their forward positions. The captain and lieutenant conferred, then sent the word out over the comms: the enemy was probably preparing for its big charge, and the convoy had only one major trick up its sleeve. When the rebels came rushing in, the convoy would blow up the trucks, hoping to cause enough confusion to allow the men to escape.
Nothing was said about the pattern of retreat. Hawker correctly surmised it would be every man for himself.
The charge came moments later, hundreds of Ruchinks—looking dirty and ill-clad, but very well-armed—running down the hill through the rain, screaming as they came. Hawker and his fellows fell back as ordered, drawing the enemy into range. Then, with blinding suddenness, half the hillside exploded into day.
***
The trucks had been rigged ahead of time to provide a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. They exploded in sequence rather than all at once, providing almost a full minute of blasts that shook the ground and lit the countryside as bright as the noonday sun. Hawker hit the ground and buried himself face down in the mud, counting the explosions—one for each truck. Rocks and debris tossed skyward by the blasts pelted down on him, and even after the last truck had blown he waited several seconds before getting to his feet again and looking around to get his bearings.
The scene was chaotic. Soldiers from both sides lay dead in the road, having been too near the trucks when they exploded. Still others lay dying or injured—and from what Hawker had seen of this war so far, there was little concern about tending the wounded. Most of them would probably die, slowly and painfully. Of the rest, many were still recovering from the shock of the blasts. If ever there was a time to escape, this was it.
Crouching low to hide himself in the tall grass and boulders alongside the road, Hawker began his awkward run from the scene of the battle. Home base was more than fifty kilometers away, but he didn’t think he’d have to travel that far on foot; there were advance patrols out constantly, and if he could hook in with one of them he could ride the rest of the way home. Everything depended, though, on his staying alive between here and there.
He tripped over something lying hidden in the grass, and nearly went sprawling; only quick reflexes and a good sense of balance kept him on his feet. He looked back to see what had upset him, and saw that it was a body dressed in a U.S. uniform. That in itself was no indication—rebel soldiers frequently dressed in captured uniforms to fool the loyalists—but the man was also black, which almost guaranteed his being on Hawker’s side. The enemy forces were mostly Chinese, aided sometimes by Russians who were white or Eurasian; any blacks were sure to be Americans.
The man at first appeared dead, and Hawker started to move on when the fellow moaned softly. Torn between the desire to run and the impulse at least to check the extent of the other’s injuries, Hawker stood still for a moment. Then his humanitarian instincts won out, and he moved to the black man’s side. “Take it easy,” he whispered. “Don’t make any noise, or they’ll spot us. Let me see how you’re doing.”
He rolled the man over on his back, and recognized him almost immediately. It was Thaddeus Connors.
Connors hadn’t been part of the convoy; he must have been assigned to the forward firebase and escaped when it was overrun. He was bleeding from a bullet hole in his abdomen. He’d lost a lot of blood already, and the wound showed no signs of closing. His face was contorted with pain and it was unlikely, in his condition and in the fading light of dusk, that he recognized Hawker. He tried to talk, but the pain was too great and he could only gasp a couple of syllables.
“I’ve seen men live with worse,” Hawker said, reaching for the first-aid kit at his belt. He remembered the all-too-brief lecture on the items in the kit, including bandages coated with coagulant to retard bleeding. “Just press the bandage against the wound,” the instructor had said, “and hold it there tightly until the bleeding stops. If it takes more than two minutes, move on—the patient’s beyond your help.”
There was little light left to see what he was doing—just the rapidly fading light of a rain-soaked day and the distant fires of the burning trucks. Hawker ripped off the paper covering and held the bandage tightly to Connors’s stomach. Whatever the chemical was, it seemed to work; the bleeding stopped in less than two minutes, and Hawker used some of his kit’s adhesive tape to secure the bandage in place. Connors had passed out in the meantime and Hawker, kneeling beside him, sat back on his heels to think what he should do next.
He owed nothing to Connors, beyond what any human being owed another. The man had always been hostile to him—and dangerously so in that men’s room incident. Hawker didn’t like him, and his mind could make a good case for abandoning the man right here beside the road. He’d already done more than his share by stopping the bleeding; he’d pe
rhaps saved Connors’s life. He had his own welfare to consider. Why jeopardize himself to aid a man who’d been nothing but trouble?
There was not a single good reason—except that Hawker had been raised with the belief that one had to help one’s fellow man. For all his belligerence, Connors was still a colleague—and he was one of the few remaining people from Hawker’s own world of the past, one of the few who could understand the special problems of being dissociated from normal time. For that alone, Connors was valuable to him.
Hawker pondered the problem. They certainly couldn’t stay here. Even if they weren’t spotted during the night, they’d have almost no chance of avoiding detection tomorrow. Their main hope was to be far enough away from here by morning that the enemy would have to spread out more to conduct a search.
The night would be both blessing and hindrance. Its darkness would give Hawker and his patient cover to slip back toward home base secretly; the rebels’ nighttime detection equipment had never been very effective. If they could make reasonably good time during the night, they could find someplace to hide and sleep during the day.
On the other hand, traveling at night held its own hazards. There were plenty of rebel IEDs and loyalist mines along the road; it didn’t matter whose mine he stepped on, the end results would not be pretty. The road itself was safe; it was regularly swept clean. But staying directly on the road meant being more easily spotted by enemy snipers….
Looking down at his patient, he could see that Connors’s eyes were open again. The man was conscious and breathing a little more easily. “Ready to move?” Hawker asked him. They’d already tarried here far too long; the enemy troops would be advancing soon to snatch as much territory as they could under cover of darkness.
Connors gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ain’t no good, man,” he said. “I’m dead.”
“Naw, you’re just lazy, like all you niggers.”
That did it. Hawker could see the spark of fire returning to Connors’s eyes. “Motherfuckin’ honky bastard,” he said. “You just get me on my feet and I’ll show you who’s lazy.” He grabbed Hawker’s upper arm to use as a crutch, and pulled himself up so hard Hawker was almost yanked off balance. Connors made it to his feet, though, and stood for a moment swaying unsteadily. He was obviously weak from the loss of blood.
“I figured we could walk back to base,” Hawker whispered. “You can put your arm around my shoulders and lean on me—”
“Fuck that shit! Thaddeus Connors don’t lean on no white man.”
“Suit yourself. But we’ve got to get going now, or the Ruchinks’ll be crawling up both our asses.”
Hawker led the way, bending over and walking parallel to the road but about twenty meters from it. Connors followed much more slowly, but too proud to take any help. Hawker felt frustrated that, despite the ever-present peril, they couldn’t move any faster than a wounded man could stagger. Time after time, the thought occurred to him that he could travel better alone. He could find a safe hiding place for Connors and go on until he reached safety, then send a team back for the man. But no matter how tempting the idea, he never once mentioned it. Connors was his responsibility for the moment.
Hawker estimated they’d covered about four kilometers when Connors fell and could not get to his feet again. Sitting beside his fallen companion, Hawker tried to make it sound as though stopping here had been his idea all along. “I think we’re far enough from the battle to be safe for the night. We’ll rest here till dawn, then find a place to hide during the day. We can travel some more tomorrow night.”
There was no answer; Connors had already passed out. With a sigh, Hawker moved a few meters away and found a comfortable spot where he could lean against a small boulder. He unslung his rifle from his back, set it on automatic and laid it gently on his lap, Leaning back against his rock, he closed his eyes and allowed the fatigue of the day’s tensions to wash over him; within minutes he had fallen asleep, leaving the worries and insecurities until the next morning.
***
He woke with the first light of dawn and sat still for a moment—his body stiff from a night spent on the cold ground—while the memory of the previous night came back. After looking around to make sure they were still undiscovered, Hawker stood, stretching, before making his way over to check on his still-unconscious patient.
Satisfied that at least Connors wasn’t any worse, Hawker turned to survey their surroundings. They had made it down the mountainside during the night, and were now in a field a dozen meters from the road. Hawker couldn’t see anyone else and nothing moved except a few birds flying overhead.
The field left them no cover, but there was a drainage ditch off to the left; studying it, Hawker decided it would be their best bet for cover during the day. With great difficulty, he lifted Connors up under the arms and dragged him slowly across the ground to the ditch, easing him in before crawling in himself.
He hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday, as his belly was loudly reminding him. There were MREs and protein tablets in the survival kit, but he was reluctant to eat them now; he didn’t know how much longer he’d be stranded out here before he could reach the base. He’d gone hungry before; he could stand another day or so.
The drainage ditch contained several large muddy puddles that didn’t look very appealing now, but might later. His canteen was still about half-full, and he noticed that Connors had his canteen, too. With any luck, they’d have enough water to last them until they reached help.
Connors awoke shortly after sunup. He still seemed dazed and in pain, but was resolved not to show it. The two men stared silently across the ditch at one another for a long time before Connors broke the silence. “You’re the quiet one, ain’t you?”
“Guess so,” Hawker said.
Connors had a coughing fit, then went on: “Why’d you let them sucker you into signing up for this shit?”
Hawker shrugged. “Don’t know. Felt like the thing to do.”
“Stupid,” Connors said, shaking his head.
“If you’re so fucking smart, how come you’re here?”
“Mind your own fucking business,” Connors snapped, his hostility back to its normal levels.
The two men didn’t speak the rest of the morning.
By mid-afternoon, Connors’s condition became more serious. Though the sun had broken through the clouds and was warming the ground, the man was shivering uncontrollably.
Hawker moved over to his side. “Let me have a look at that.”
“I’ll be okay,” Connors insisted.
Hawker ignored the protests and bent over for a closer examination. The wound had not reopened, but the area immediately around it was inflamed and puffy. He touched the region experimentally, causing Connors to cry out in pain.
Hawker pulled back and frowned, unsure what to do now. Checking his first-aid kit, he found a packet of pills labeled “general antibiotic,” and another couple of pills labeled as strong painkillers. He gave one of each to Connors, who was by now shivering so badly he could barely swallow them. Hawker remembered reading somewhere that wrapping a person in blankets was supposed to help—but he had no blankets, only the clothes each of them was wearing, still soaked from the night before. Left with nothing else he could do, Hawker returned to his previous spot and settled down to keep an eye on Connors’s progress.
Despite the pills, Connors only seemed to get worse. His shivering fits increased in intensity; his moaning grew louder. He drifted in and out of consciousness, thrashing about on the ground so violently that Hawker had to come over and restrain him to prevent the man from hurting himself. Connors began mumbling, too—quietly, at first, but as his fever mounted, his voice grew in volume until Hawker could clearly hear the delirious ravings.
“Ya gotta hide me, man,” he cried out. “I gotta get outta here!”
“We can’t move now,” Hawker said. “We’ve got to stay put till dark.”
“No, man. Gotta keep movin’. He’l
l find me.”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“Her brother, man. I gotta get outta here.”
“Whose brother?”
“Susie’s. He wants to kill me.”
“Who’s Susie, and why does her brother want to kill you?”
“He warned me, man. He told me to stay away. But Susie wouldn’t leave me. She said we could run off together. I wanted to, but I was too scared. You gotta hide me.”
“Look, whoever he is, he can’t get to you here.”
Connors’s face was sweating; his eyes were glassy, staring up at nothing while his head rolled side to side, lips moving silently. Hawker bent closer, but couldn’t hear anything. He began to back away, but then Connors started to scream.
“She’s dead, man. She’s dead.” There were tears in his eyes, and a choking sob in his voice.
Hawker began to worry that the man’s screams would alert the enemy. “Quiet.”
“How could he do that? His own sister! Now he wants me.”
“Susie’s own brother killed her?”
“President of Detroit’s Aryan Legion can’t have no nigger babies in his family. Then he blames me for killing her. Shit, man, I loved her. I’d never kill her!”
Aryan Legion. They didn’t call it Legion for nothing. No wonder Connors thought escaping into the future was his only way out. As the man continued to thrash and rave, Hawker did his best to pacify him—with only intermittent success.
Connors’s fever broke shortly before sundown, and he was awake and coherent soon after that. He seemed to have no memory of what had happened during his delirium, and Hawker didn’t bring the subject up.
Instead, Hawker knelt beside his patient and said, “Feel like taking a little walk?”
“No,” said Connors. He rolled over and got slowly to his feet under his own power. If anything, he seemed slightly stronger after his earlier ordeal, giving Hawker hope that they might cover more ground tonight.
The Eternity Brigade Page 8