A Private Little War(65)

“Now as reported,” Ted was saying, “the artillery site was hammered real good. Carter had ’em lit up, so it was tough to miss. Fokkers one and four pull up into a turn here, moving to rejoin formation, and here”—the map paused itself—“just as you’re starting your turn, Porter, you call in movement in the tree line.”

Porter nodded. “Just on the edge of the strike zone.”

“Just on the edge of the strike zone,” Ted repeated. “Right, Porter?”

“Movement in the trees,” Porter said. “Didn’t know what it was. Figured it was nothing.”

“Yeah, well, you were wrong. Nothing’s nothing. Everything is something. And that’s why you’re a shitty card player, too.” The little blue triangles were frozen against the map, an instant away from the sharp end. Ted coughed and cleared his throat. “Anyway, as per standing orders, Porter, as spotter, takes point. Fokker four—that’s Morris—is on your wing. Fokkers two and three dive to come in on your tail. The whole squadron turns out wide and comes in to, what, Porter?”

“To investigate.”

“To investigate. Fucking right.”

“They were waiting for us,” Porter said quietly. Carter looked over at him. His hands were folded in front of him, his eyes on the floor. Pose of the penitent, of regret.

“Of course they were waiting for you,” Ted said. “We’ve been blowing the shit out of these dopey, primitive shits for months. You think they haven’t been watching what we do? I guaran-fucking-tee you, gentlemen, our planes have been the single most carefully observed thing on this whole stupid planet since the day we showed up, so every one of those shit-eating monkeys out there knows exactly what we’re going to do before we do it. And we did just like they expected, didn’t we?” He slashed at the map with his laser pointer. “The flight drops speed, comes in low and slow from the north to investigate Porter’s nothing in the trees, puts them in the kill box here, in the ideal position to be shot at. Porter? You want to take us through what happens next?”

“No,” said Porter.

And Ted whirled, his body a taut wire of rage, like something inside him was afire. “Yessir, you mean. Yes fucking sir. Porter, take us through what happens next.”

For a minute, Porter worked his jaw without any sound coming out. When the words finally came to him, they dropped leadenly from his mouth, in short, clipped sentences with a breath between each. “They opened up on us as soon as we crossed the strike zone.” Breath. “Three guns in the near tree line.” Breath. “Fourth at the northeast end. To our flank. We were down close to the treetops—”

“Three-seven-five feet,” Ted clarified, turning back to the display.

“At choke speed.”

“Ninety miles per,” Ted said. He was close enough to the projection to read the indicators.

“The forward guns got Morris and me on approach. They had tracers. We flew right straight up on them. Impossible to miss. I think the flanking gun tried for Billy and Albert. It missed. They just got lucky with Morris and me.”

“That’s not luck, Porter. That’s planning. That’s wanting really, really badly to kill you right goddamn dead.” Ted turned to face the room once more. He tucked away his pointer. “What’s luck is that you aren’t.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, drew himself up with a breath, and finished out the narrative. “First squadron breaks for evasive with two planes damaged, overshoots the site, climbs to safety, and changes course for home.”

On the map behind him, both Porter’s and Morris’s triangles had turned to red.

“Fokker four had serious engine trouble, splintered prop, oil leaks. He was shot to shit and probably would’ve never made it back even if Morris hadn’t also been hit. He took seven rounds we could count. His suit stopped five, but he took one penetrating wound in the belly and one in the hand that mostly took it off at the wrist. Morris passed out from blood loss before going in and wrecking eight miles short of the field. Upon investigation, he was found KIA on-site.”

Morris’s triangle turned black, fell out of formation, then winked out.

“Everyone here knows the rest.”

Eddie jumped in. “I don’t want to be a prick about this, guys, but odds are airman Ross would’ve survived until a pickup could be scrambled if he’d been wearing his emergency gear. I can’t understand why he wasn’t, actually. But I’ve been informed that this has become common practice over the past year, and it ends right now. This stuff is here for your protection, so from now on, no one goes up without a complete kit. That means helmet, protenolol and hemosclerex injectors, web gear—everything. That’s a direct order, understood?”