Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(85)

Rio fires at him but then reconsiders. The sniper almost certainly has a scoped rifle, and she is not going to win a bullet-for-bullet exchange.

“Hey, Stick!” she yells down.

His voice comes floating up. “You okay?”

“We’re just swell,” Rio says. “Can you send up some rifle grenades?” She looks at Jack. “You have any blanks?”

He fishes in his ammo pouch and produces three. They look like regular bullets but with the end crimped down and with no slug.

“All out of antitank grenades,” Stick yells. “You want the bazooka?”

Rio looks around, considering. The space is too cramped for a bazooka—there’s nowhere to vent the back end of the bazooka, and they’re likely to cook themselves or at the very least start a fire. “We’ll try with frags,” Rio calls back.

Three grenades and an adapter come up with Jenou. The space is cramped with three of them. Rio attaches the grenade launcher. It is a steel tube about six inches long that slides over the muzzle and snaps in place like a bayonet. There are half a dozen raised rings around the launcher.

The adapter is a short, squat tube with a simple gripping spring that cradles a grenade. Rio slides a grenade into position in the adapter, sighing as she pushes it onto the fourth ring—the deeper the seating, the more power, but also the more recoil.

She crouches beside the low door, peeks at the distant sniper, and gets a stone splinter in her cheek for her pains.

“He’s good,” Stafford says. “You’ll need covering fire.”

Rio looks around, muttering, “I wish I could prop it against something. Damn recoil.”

“How about him?” Jenou suggests, indicating the dead German.

They drag the dead man into place. Rio sets the butt of her rifle against his bent back.

“Okay. On three.”

Jenou and Jack stand ready with their weapons. It’s going to be cramped and dangerous firing through the doorway while Rio is aiming the rifle grenade.

“One. Two. Three!”

Jack and Jenou blaze away, Rio sights the rifle grenade and fires. The recoil punches the dead German hard, and the three of them twist out of the line of fire.

Two seconds of flight and bam!

Rio glances out, sees plaster dust and a little smoke beside the sniper’s window. Close. Not close enough.

“Another,” Rio says, and reloads.

The same routine, but this time the sniper is expecting it and his fire drives the three of them back behind cover before Rio can aim.

And then, a distant pop-pop-pop.

And a voice yelling, “He’s down.”

Rio looks out and sees Hansu Pang waving from the sniper’s perch. Stick has taken advantage of the distraction to run up the back street and send Pang up to the roof of an apartment building and shoot the unaware sniper.

Tilo is avenged.

Maybe now we can retrieve his body.

Another day of the war. Another small, nasty firefight that would never make it to the history books. Another few hundred yards of rubble gained.

The full platoon, forty-six men and women now, after losing Suarez and the replacement, and the several wounded, spends the night in a church that must have been quite beautiful once. The roof is partly collapsed, but there are still hints of gilt and paint suggesting the ceiling was once a work of art. The cross is gone from the altar, as are the usual vestments, candlesticks, censers, and chalices. A painted plaster Madonna has lost her Baby Jesus and part of her face. Another saint stands looking up toward heaven though some joker has hung a grenade from her hand.

The pews are cots now, GIs sprawled along them. There’s a campfire going on the slate floor just before the altar steps. The smell of instant coffee tugs at Rio’s awareness.

“Hey, I found the wine!” a guy Rio knows only vaguely as Skip announces, proudly waving four bottles, two in each hand.

Rio flinches, recalling Tilo’s glee at seeing the bottle of wine.

“That’s sacred wine, you damn heathen,” says Cat.

“Not if it ain’t been blessed and had words said over it,” Skip retorts.

“Well, let me try a little,” Cat says with a broad wink. “I can tell you whether it’s holy or not. Won’t take me more than half a bottle. If I don’t burst into flames by then, you can safely drink a little yourself.”

Rio sits with her back against a cold stone pillar, feet toward the fire, boots off, socks laid as close to the fire as they can be without catching fire. With her are Jenou, Jack, Cole, Jillion, Hansu Pang, Beebee, Geer, and two guys from other squads, one of whom is using his bayonet to open a can of hash.

Jenou raises her canteen cup. “To Suarez.”

Those who have beverages raise them. The others just nod.

“I don’t like him still lying over there in the street,” Rio says.

Sergeant Cole gives her a sidelong look. “Graves registration will be here tomorrow. Engineers are there sweeping for booby traps now, that comes first.”

“I knew it was nuts there being loaves of bread out,” Rio says. “Wine just sitting there. I just didn’t . . .”

No one says a word of comfort, no one says a word of reproach. It was not really her responsibility; they all knew about the possibility of booby traps. But it was her detail and she has left a man dead, and that fact cannot be dismissed.