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"If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven's scene," he half hummed, half
sang as the first normal reached his hole. He blew it apart with a blast of
silver fire, but there was another and then another behind it, all around, and
his magazine dropped out. " . . . they will find the streets are guarded, by
United
States Marines."
* * *
Tommy had managed to get Wendy aside for a moment as the two Reapers assembled
the boxes on the top of the hill. It had required, among other things,
climbing around the shoulder of the ridge. But with the preparations to carry
the gear over to Black Rock Mountain well underway, he could take a moment of
private time.
He ended up carrying Wendy the last few meters as the side of the mountain got
vertical; with ample power he could apply his full anti-grav system and simply
fly around the precipice.
"Now that was exciting," she said as they landed on a relatively flat patch.
It was a narrow ledge, mostly granite with some moss and twisted saplings
growing out of the rocks. Under the rising moon it was an inhospitable and
airy place that seemed to speak of sylphs and elementals, a place where lichen
struggled to grab a gray foothold.
"So, Superman, what's the big secret?"
"Not a secret, really," he said, taking off his helmet so he could see her
with his own eyes. "It's just . . . we don't have much more time." He paused
and looked to the south. There was a strong, cold breeze from the north and
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their aerie was exposed to it, but he still could hear occasional sounds from
the
Gap where the Posleen hordes were pouring through. "When we go back . . .
there's not going to be much we can really do. Just . . . dig in and hold on.
And there's not anything really coming that's going to get here . . ."
"So you're saying that when you go, you're not coming back?" Wendy asked
pushing her hair back behind her ear. The wind was hitting the ledge and being
deflected upwards. The zephyrs yanked her blond hair back out from where she
had futilely tucked it and streamed it out and upwards.
"I . . . I think so, sweet." Tommy toggled on a white light and looked her in
the eye. Her eyes were a deep, magnetic blue. It had been so long he'd almost
forgotten how blue. "It's been bad before. And there was always the chance of
catching a round. But this time . . ."
"So you brought me here to tell me you're going to leave me?" she asked,
quietly, stroking his face again.
The suit undergel took care of all personal hygiene needs, including
depilation. His chin was normally rough with a beard; he had to shave twice a
day. But under the care of the suit it was as smooth as a baby's.
"Maybe, a little," he answered. "And . . . you know we're in a rush. We don't
have much time. But . . ."
"Tommy?" she said, pulling her shirt over her head and starting to undo her
bra. "Shut up and get that goddamned armor off."
* * *
Mosovich tried not to smile as the lieutenant and his "lady" joined them on
the hilltop; if he'd had the opportunity he probably would have taken it as
well.
"Well, Lieutenant, nice to see you back," Mueller said with a chuckle.
Tommy had the grace to look a bit shamefaced but Wendy just smiled languidly.
"I guess it's time to port and carry, huh? I hope we can rig it so it doesn't
hit my bruises."
Mueller coughed as Shari chuckled wickedly. "That sounds like a self-inflicted
wound to me."
"Oh, it took two," Wendy said with a wink.
"If we're ready to leave," Sunday said, looking at the boxes, then at McEvoy.
"Time to load up."
He lifted one of the boxes onto the side of the Reaper's suit and locked it in
place with a gravity clamp, then added one to the other side. It took a moment
to figure out but he finally found a place to add a third, and that seemed
about the maximum that would fit. He did the same with Pickersgill then had
them load him up with one of the power packs, an ammo box and the weapons box,
now covered in cloth.
Finally the three suits were ready, looking very much like some odd species of
worm that preferred to camouflage itself in boxes.
With difficulty Tommy and the Reapers helped the unarmored group to each load
up a box. The cases were heavy, running nearly a hundred and fifty pounds, and
didn't have carrying straps. But by strapping them onto empty rucksack frames
they finally got them on their backs. They were terribly unwieldy, but
marginally portable.
"Let's go," Elgars said, leaning forward to try to get the box balanced.
"Take care of the kids," Shari said, shifting the weight to try to get it
comfortable. But, really, there was no way to do that; she could feel the
straps cutting into her back, and her legs already felt wobbly.
"I will," Cally said, looking over at Wendy and Tommy. "You guys take care,
okay?"
"We will," Mosovich said. "Keep your head down."
"Will do."
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Sunday looked around at the group, then at Elgars. "Captain, if you're ready."
"Cally, get back to the cache," Elgars said. "Let's move out."
With that she took a step down the trail, placing her feet carefully. One slip
with these damned boxes on their backs and they'd end up in a broken pile of
bones.
"I remember filling this out on my list of future employment," Mosovich said,
shifting the weight again and trying to move his AIW into a better position.
"What's that?" Mueller asked. Of all the group he was the one who seemed the
least bothered by the weight.
"Sherpa," the sergeant major said with a laugh. "I always wanted to tote
somebody else's luggage over hill and dale."
"You know, there's got to be a better way to run a war," Mueller said.
* * *
Dr. Miguel "Mickey" Castanuelo was a fanatic.
Miguel A. Castanuelo had first seen the United States from the bow of a
pitching, overloaded boat. And if there was anything more lovely than that
faint shred of land of the horizon, it was the Coast Guard cutter that had
appeared just as it seemed the leaky boat was finally going to sink.
The boat was one of the last "official" refugee boats from Castro's Cuba;
within a month all transport would be forbidden. Miguel's father, Jose
Castanuelo, was a medical doctor who was the victim of one of the favorite
post-revolution games: catch the Batistist.
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