Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(109)

“The orders are clear,” Rainy shoots back.

“Well, your colonel isn’t the one who has to find a way through, now is he? He ain’t here, he’s in the rear with some A-rab whore pulling his pud.”

Garaman and Schulterman continue to argue, and Helder continues to show every sign of being a man overwhelmed, while Cole borrows a pair of binoculars and scans the two sides of the pass.

“Anyone here ever done any mountain climbing?” Cole asks, interrupting the increasingly heated flow of invective.

Rio has not, but Hansu Pang raises his hand. So does a corporal from another squad.

“What are you thinking, Jedron?” Garaman asks, relieved to have an excuse to end the absurd shouting match with a woman half his size.

“I’m thinking that cliff right there isn’t but thirty, forty feet high,” Sergeant Cole says. “A man could carry a rope up there.”

The NCOs pass the binoculars back and forth, pausing to cast suspicious glances at Private Pang.

“We’re supposed to trust a fugging Jap?” someone asks, making the suspicions explicit.

“He’s an American,” Cole says, casting his own suspicious look at Pang, who stands stock-still, jaw clenched.

“I’m actually—” Hansu begins, but is cut off.

“He could get to the top and signal anyone on the other side,” Garaman says. “He could bring them down on us.”

Silence stretches as everyone considers the situation. Finally Helder sighs and says, “I don’t like it. But if we don’t try it, this headquarters girl, sorry, Sergeant Schulterman, here, is going to have us up on charges.”

“That’s right,” Rainy says, playing her part.

“Yeah, that’s about what I thought.” Sergeant Garaman is disgusted. It’s a feeling shared by everyone, including a visibly angry Hansu Pang. “Someone’s got to climb with the Jap. And if there’s any funny business . . .”

The implication is unspoken but clear: if Pang looks cross-eyed, someone has to be there to shoot him.

“I’ll go with Pang,” Cole says at last. “See if we can’t find a way forward that isn’t through that pass. Maybe at least get a picture of what’s on the other side. Could be more mines, could be a battalion of Waffen SS waiting for us.”

“Okay. And we need a detail to check on the jeep, see if anyone’s alive. Salvage any water or ammo. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll go.” Dain Sticklin, of course.

“Pick two people from your squad to go with you,” Sergeant Garaman says.

Sticklin’s eyes widen in shock. “I’m not a noncom, I’m—”

“I don’t really give a goddamn,” Garaman snaps, his patience worn out. “It’s a three-man job. And, Cole, before you give me any crap about your squad doing the hard part, your man volunteered. I want him to have people he knows. Pick your team, Stick. Pang, get a fugging rope.”

“Sorry,” Stick says to Rio.

Rio is flattered, but she’s more tired. She groans. So does Jack when he intercepts Sticklin’s abashed look.

“Oh, lovely,” Jack says. “Just bloody lovely.”

The idea is simple enough: stay strictly within the jeep’s tire tracks. But those tracks are only about eight inches wide and the distance to be covered is a quarter mile.

Sticklin takes point. He’s handed off his BAR to Geer, both because it’s an ungainly weight to carry when trying to walk a perfectly straight line, and because they can’t risk a useful weapon.

Jack is next in line, with Rio behind him. They keep a hundred-foot interval. If Sticklin hits a mine it will only kill him and not the two behind him.

Heel, toe, heel, toe. Rio wobbles. Rights herself. Heel, toe. Like walking a balance beam. Like a tired, thirsty, exhausted gymnast walking a balance beam.

And with each step they are closer to a devastation that Rio does not want to see. She never liked Liefer, but she never wanted her blown up.

Sticklin stops.

Rio freezes. Advances slowly, cautiously.

Something on the sand. Just to the right. Just ten feet beyond the safe zone. A charred object, black, tattered.

An arm.

A human arm. It can’t be anything else given the length, given the way it bends in the middle. Given the way it ends in what looks like a bird’s claw more than a hand but must nevertheless be a hand, a human hand.

“Who is it?” Jack asks. His voice is hushed. It’s a church voice.

Sticklin shakes his head slightly.

They move on, no longer keeping an interval because they need each other’s presence for what lies ahead. The terra-cotta-colored walls of the canyon are close around them now, the ground steep and the walls steeper. The passage is narrow at this point, no more than thirty, forty feet from wall to wall. The jeep lies upended, engine down, wheels in the air. It’s bent, as though it were one of those die-cast metal toys, and twisted in the middle.

It’s burning, but not all of it, mostly just the rear wheels, sending up a column of black smoke, filling the air with the stink of burning rubber. Burning rubber and a smell that’s just a little like bacon.

Corporal Seavee is still in his seat. It seems impossible, but he slumps there, bent over the twisted frame of the windshield. His arms hang down like he’s pointing at the ground. His back is burning.