Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(46)

They are grouped into platoons and squads, combat formations different from the organization for other training. Rio knows most of the people in her squad, likes some of them, can’t stand others, Luther Geer being prominent among that second group. Rio, Jenou, and an older woman named Arabella DeLarge are the only females in their squad. Cat Preeling is with a different group.

They carry full gear, including rifles loaded with blanks.

“They’ll make noise, they just won’t kill anyone,” Mackie says laconically. “Only your own stupidity will get you killed. Try not to be stupid. The army would like you to get into the war before you get yourself killed.”

They are deep in the trees and deeper still in the mosquitoes, which fly like dive bombers through the clouds of harmless but annoying gnats. The day is hot and, worse yet for girls from California, humid. Humidity at Camp Maron has been torture for Rio and Jenou.

Rio slaps a mosquito on her neck.

“Did you apply your mosquito repellant, Private Richlin?” Mackie demands.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Rio says. “The mosquitoes don’t want to be repelled.”

“Richlin’s just too sweet,” Tilo says.

“Today’s exercise is simple. The Red Team—”

“The coons,” Luther interrupts.

“—will be coming from the east looking to take the only bridge over this stream. Then they will attempt to hold that bridge. You will beat them to that bridge and hold it.”

“Hell yes, we will,” Luther says loudly. He has left his contraband kitten back in its enclosure beneath the barracks.

“If we find this bridge,” Kerwin mutters just loudly enough for Rio and a few others to hear.

“Your compass heading is north-northeast,” Mackie says. “The objective is approximately four miles from here. We will begin . . .” She looks at her watch, waits, waits, waits. “Now!”

And no one moves.

“I take it from your cowlike immobility that you are waiting for me to show you the way,” Mackie says. “I will not be showing you the way. The theoretical for this war game is that this platoon has lost its sergeants as well as its lieutenant, so, ladies and gentlemen, I will be back at my quarters filling out reports and drinking coffee while you are hiking through the woods. There will be proctors wearing yellow armbands. They will evaluate your performance and decide who’s dead and wounded. And they will evacuate you when and if you break an ankle or are bitten by a snake.”

Arabella DeLarge emits a small shriek at the mention of the word snake. So does one of the men. Sergeant Mackie grins, which is not a reassuring sight.

There are blank looks all around. The platoon consists of forty-eight men and women, and not one of them has any particular reason to think they’re in charge. Finally someone actually pulls out a compass and says, “Northeast is that way,” and makes a chopping motion.

Stick has just elected himself as guide. Some of the other men grumble and make a point of taking out their own compasses as if to double-check, but in the end the consensus is that they should all follow the young man with the widow’s peak who spoke up first. They set off through the woods with all the discipline of a herd of sheep, and all the stealth of a brass band. They reach a proctor a few minutes after plunging into the woods. He nods as they pass.

Within minutes the complaining begins.

“If you soaked wool blankets in steaming hot water and then wrapped them around yourself, it would not feel as miserable as this,” Rio says.

“Humidity,” Jenou agrees darkly, catches her boot on one of the many aboveground roots, and trips.

“And snakes, don’t forget snakes,” Kerwin says, and snatches Jenou’s pack, keeping her from hitting the ground face-first.

“Thanks, Cassel.”

“Well, we’re a team, right? I’m pretty sure I heard that somewhere.”

Rio swats another mosquito. “I keep killing these mosquitoes, but they keep coming.”

“So where are these Nigras?” Luther demands. “Let’s find ’em, pretend-shoot ’em, and head back.”

“Be careful they don’t pretend-shoot you,” Rio snaps. The contempt in Geer’s voice sets her teeth on edge.

“No Nigra ever beat a white man,” Luther says breezily. “Just like no woman ever beat a man.”

Rio bites her lip, not wanting to waste energy on a pointless argument. She does not like humidity, that’s the main point; in fact, she hates humidity. It’s grown steadily worse over the last few weeks, and she now thinks of the humidity and heat as personal insults. And she hates mosquitoes with an intensity of feeling she has never felt for anything before.

Rio comes out of her sour rumination on climate, and the insects that climate brings with it, in time to hear Geer say, “. . . we string ’em up.”

“What?” Rio demands.

Luther grins and pantomimes a rope around the neck, yanked upward. He sticks his tongue out comically. “Nigra talks back, Nigra shows disrespect for a white woman, what else are you going to do? You get some boys, go around to their shack, frog-march them to the nearest tree, and watch ’em dance while you pass the bottle around.”

“Shut up, Geer.” This from Kerwin.

“Screw you, Cassel, I know where you come from, and it ain’t any different there.”