Silver Stars (Front Lines 2)

Rio is lowered to the ground, an action made more difficult by her attempts to jump down on her own. She’s been carried, over the shoulder, by someone, and then, lying on the ground and looking up, she sees a face in shadow but still recognizable.

Jack.

“What happened?” she asks, panicky, and begins checking her body.

“You blew the fug out of everything.” This from Cat, who is panting, sweating, and looking shaken.

Rio nods, straining to hear and straining, too, to remember. She glances around. A huge fire burns no more than two hundred yards away. Smaller fires blaze away to the left and right and beyond the spot where the plane had been. Around her an eerie scene out of a natural disaster, like some newsreel clip of a tornado’s aftermath. A wide circle of trees has either b

een knocked flat or stands burning.

The bombs.

“Strand?”

Jack jerks a thumb to indicate Strand lying on a makeshift stretcher. Cat and Geer have obviously been carrying it and have set it down to rest while Rio regains her wits. Strand is breathing, she can see his chest rising and falling. The two flyers are standing nervously, peering at her with something between disapproval and amazement.

“Where’s my rifle?” Rio demands.

Geer lifts it off Strand and tosses it to her. She catches it just ahead of the trigger guard and automatically slides the bolt to check that she has a chambered round. The brass cartridge glows warm in the firelight.

“All right,” Rio says, still woozy and not completely sure what has happened. “Let’s get moving.”

Jack is directly in front of her. His blue eyes are absent their usual mischief, and in the orange light they seem very serious. He says something, but it’s in a low voice and she can’t quite hear it.

She taps her ear and says, “Sorry,” in a too-loud voice.

Jack shakes his head very slightly. His expression is unreadable. In a much louder voice he says, “Never mind,” which she does hear.

“I’ll take a turn carrying the stretcher once we get clear of this place,” Rio says. “Let’s move.”

And with that she levels her rifle and leads the way into the trees beyond the blast area.

The trip back is much slower than the trip to the site. Strand is not small nor particularly light, and rifles do not make the best stretcher poles. But finally they strike a road and hail a passing deuce-and-a-half whose driver takes pity on them.

An hour and a half after being picked up they are back with the Fifth Platoon, which has been pulled off the line and back to the beach for a rest. There are as yet very few tents set up, and soldiers are passed out in sleeping bags or simply lying atop shelter halves. The night is warm, and the dawn, just peeking from behind distant Mount Etna, promises to be downright hot.

Sergeant Cole and the rest welcome their buddies with the usual sincerity as expressed in wry looks, teasing insults, and indifferent nods or waves.

Beebee and a new guy from another squad are detailed to carry Strand to the nearest aid station. Cat leads Rio down to the chow tent.

“You got blood coming out of your ears,” Cat points out with no sign of concern.

Alarmed, Rio touches her ears. “It’s dried. Mostly.”

“I didn’t say it was pouring out.” Cat walks beside her and then suddenly stops, reaches over, and hugs Rio in an awkward sideways way. “You did good back there.” The clinch is over in a second, leaving Rio not knowing quite what to say.

“Thanks. I guess.”

They reach the chow line, which seems to be a permanent fixture regardless of mealtimes.

“You blew the living shit out of the Krauts,” Cat says.

“You know . . . dammit, SOS again? Isn’t this breakfast?” SOS is the abbreviation for Shit on a Shingle, the gooey, creamy mess of meat, milk, and flour the chow line has been featuring almost without a break. “Just as I was tossing the grenades it occurred to me, what if the bombs don’t all go off at once, what if the first explosion just throws them all around the place.”

“I hate to tell you, but that’s exactly what happened. Bombs flying through the air. Whoosh. Boom. Sheer dumb luck one didn’t land on us. People wouldn’t be using words like splendid then, would they? Tell you one thing, any fish in that lake is either dead or has the worst headache of its life.”

“Splendid? What are you talking about?”