Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(111)

“Could be another minefield between us and them too,” Hark Millican says with one of his more worried sighs. “Could be antipersonnel this time.”

“We either do it or don’t,” Cole says, looking to Helder, who says, “Goddammit,” several times.

No one doubts the answer. They’ve come too far. They’re late getting here, but the way back isn’t much better than the way forward at this point. Everyone is thirsty, seeing the presumed German trucks as a possible source of water. Or death.

“If it was tanks we’d hear them,” Cole says, reassuring his squad.

Rio is not reassured. She hadn’t even thought of tanks. They were looking for trucks, the tanks weren’t supposed to be there ahead of the fuel. But now it’s all she can think of. She’s had all the tanks she ever wants to see.

Garaman says, “How do you see this, Jedron?”

Cole considers. “If there are mines we’re better off sticking to single file until we get close. Keep intervals. No light. When we’re within a hundred yards or so of the road we spread right and left. They get into the crosshairs, we fire off some flares. We light them up and open up.”

Sergeant Garaman nods. “Yeah.” Then he turns to the lieutenant.

The lieutenant sighs. “Not much else we can do, is there? Can’t even see if there’s any cover.”

“Wish we had a couple more mortars and a few fifties,” another NCO says.

“Wish we had a couple of fugging tanks and some planes overhead,” Garaman says, and there’s low, anxious laughter.

“Light ’em up, blow ’em up, be ready to run like scared rabbits.”

“Hero time,” Sergeant Cole says dryly.

Rainy Schulterman says, “It’s awfully dark.” There’s fear in her voice.

Yeah, it is, Headquarters. It sure is.





35

RIO RICHLIN—TUNISIAN DESERT, NORTH AFRICA

Lights crawl toward her across the black and featureless desert, out of the southeast, heading north. Both platoons are dug in facing east.

Lieutenant Helder is in command, but he’s self-aware enough to know that this is not a job for a ninety-day wonder with no combat experience, so in effect, Sergeant Garaman is in command, with his counterpart, Sergeant Coffey from Third Platoon, as his second. Between the two platoons there are eight NCOs, not counting the female sergeant from headquarters. “Headquarters” is instructed to dig a hole well back and stay down.

Rio has had time to dig a decent hole, not deep enough to stand in, but she can squat on her knees. A hundred feet to her right, Jenou has her own foxhole. A hundred feet to her left and taking advantage of a few feet of elevation, Stick has the BAR ready.

Millican and Pang are a hundred yards out front, practically on top of the presumed line of travel for the convoy. But even in the dark Rio can see that the convoy is not staying in line but spreading out across the desert.

“That’s good and bad,” Cole opines. “Means they don’t think they have mines here.”

“What’s the bad part, Sarge?” Jenou asks.

Cole is walking the line, making sure everyone in the squad is tucked in, talking calmly, doing his best to project a confidence Rio knows he doesn’t feel.

“The bad part is the bazooka teams could end up having bad guys behind them as well as in front.”

“Will they be okay?” Rio asks.

“Sure, Richlin,” Cole says, a little sarcastic and a lot worried. “Day at the beach. The other bad news is worse: our right is hanging in the air. Third Platoon’s on the left, and that’s a bit better because at least they’ve got some dry gullies on their left. Our right flank is you people, Castain, Richlin, Stick, and that’s open ground.”

Day at the beach is an unfortunate turn of phrase: Rio’s most recent day at the beach ended with Kerwin’s blood in the sand. She wipes unconsciously at the blood that has long since sweated off her hand.

“Sun will be up soon, in a couple hours,” Stick says.

“Not before they get here,” Sergeant Cole says. “We’ll light ’em up with the flares. Then the bazookas and the mortar.” He squats beside Rio. “Richlin, their commanding officer is either going to be in a half-track or a staff car. He’s your target. If you can pick him out, you keep fire on him.”

Why me?

“Yes, sir,” Rio says.

Cole snorts a laugh, as he was supposed to. “How many times I have to tell you? I am not a sir. I work for a living.”

Rio, like every other soldier in the platoon, is secretly glad that Liefer is not here to direct this battle. Not that she wanted Liefer dead, not even a little, but in a desperate firefight she feels safer with cranky old Garaman and steady Cole, and Helder who’s got enough sense to let them handle things.

The thought takes her back to that evening with her father on the porch. It’s the sergeants that keep their men alive, the good ones, anyway. You find a sergeant you trust and stick to him like glue.

There’s a feeling of doom over her. A feeling that what is to come will be very bad, that this is a suicide mission, one for which they are wholly inadequate. She recalls her father’s warning that generals sitting far from the battlefield will spend her life for nothing. Isn’t that just what’s happening here?