Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

“Ketchup.”

“You see or hear something that looks like a person, you call out mustard. If that person does not give back ketchup, you shoot him. But let me repeat: we are not looking for a fight. We have an objective.”

Cole always pronounces it “OB-jective,” which usually makes Rio smile, but not now, this is not a time for smiles, this is a time for clenched fists and gritted teeth.

“We want to get to the objective without the enemy spotting us. So quiet it is. Like a mouse sneaking past a cat, right?”

“Right, Sarge.”

Cole then looks around at his squad, eyes just faint glitters in the dark as he tries to assess each of his charges. “If you all remember your training and don’t lose your heads, you’ll likely be okay.”

Likely. How likely?

A navy crewman comes forward, walking with an ease the land-loving GIs could never master aboard a wet, rolling matchbox. He says, “All right, five minutes to the beach. God be with you, Army.”

“Thanks for the ride, Sailor,” Cole says.

“Next time I want a first-class berth,” Rio says through a tight-clenched jaw, just to show she’s not afraid, not so afraid she can’t speak, anyway. The words chatter and break up a bit on the way out of her mouth, and the laughter that follows is strained and nervous, but laughter just the same.

Don’t screw up, Rio, that’s all.

Sergeant Garaman fires up the jeep’s engine, making everyone jump.

“Load your weapons. Safeties on!” Cole says. “Let’s not shoot ourselves getting off the boat.”

Rio draws a clip from her belt. Her fingers are numb with cold, and she almost drops it. Jenou does drop hers, but no one is in the mood just now to tease her about it.

Rio racks back the slide and thumbs in the clip, pushes it all the way down and yanks her hand back quick. She extends her index finger, touches the safety, assuring herself that it’s on.

“Hey, Richlin,” Kerwin says. “You think there’ll be any angry pigs on that beach?”

“As long as there’s a tree for us to climb, it’ll be okay,” Rio says.

“Okay, Second Squad, brace!”

They brace, hands grabbing anything solid, knees tense, heads low, insides quivering.

“Soon as the ramp drops, go. Stay low, stay quiet. Run fifty yards up, split left and right, keeping the egress clear for the jeep. Then drop and wait.”

Just don’t screw up, Rio, just don’t screw up.

Now she sees a snaking line of phosphorescence marking the crashing surf, shockingly near. The engine changes tone and the vibration increases as the coxswain slows for impact.

Rio has to pee badly.

Her breath comes short and fast. Her chest pounds out a panicky, irregular drumbeat. Her hands clutch her rifle, left hand gripping the forward stock, right hand wrapped around the neck, index finger lying on the safety, just like she’s been taught.

Lord, make me brave.

And then she glances at Jack, not wanting that thought to enter her head right now, not right now, because right now she’s about to hit the beach and she wants moral clarity, she wants to

be the good girl who will deserve the protection of an approving God.

“I guess it’ll all be nothing,” Jenou says.

“Right.”

Rio feels Jenou’s hand fumbling for hers. She releases her trigger finger and takes her friend’s cold fingers. They squeeze hard, reminding each other that they were still here, together, alive.