The Descent

Spotlights  sluiced  through  messy  concertina  wire,  past  tank  traps  and  claymores and  more  razor  wire.  The  company's  brute  armor  parked  chin-out  with  cannon  and machine  guns  leveled  at  distant  hilltops.  Shadows  turned  multiple-rocket-launcher tubes  into  baroque  cathedral  organ  pipes.  Branch's  helicopters  glittered  like  precious dragonflies stilled by  early  winter.

Branch  could  feel  the  camp  around  him,  its  borders,  its  guardians.  He  knew  the sentinels  were  suffering  the  foul  night  in  body  armor  that  was  proof  against  bullets but not against rain. He wondered if Crusaders  passing on their  way  to  Jerusalem  had hated chain mail as much as these  Rangers hated Kevlar. Every fortress a monastery, their vigilance affirmed to him. Every monastery a fortress.

Surrounded by  enemies,  there  were  officially  no  enemies  for  them.  With  civilization at  large  trickling  down  shitholes  like  Mogadishu  and  Kigali  and  Port-au-Prince,  the

'new'  Army  was  under  strict  orders:  Thou  shalt  have  no  enemy.  No  casualties.  No turf.  You  occupied  high  ground  only  long  enough  to  let  the  politicos  rattle  sabers  and get  reelected,  and  then  you  moved  on  to  the  next  bad  place.  The  landscape  changed; the hatreds  did not.

Beirut.  Iraq.  Somalia.  Haiti.  His  file  read  like  some  malediction.  Now  this.  The Dayton  Accords  had  designated  this  geographical  artifice  the   ZOS   –  the   zone  of separation   –   between   Muslims   and   Serbs   and   Croats.   If   this   rain   kept   them separated,  then he wished it would never  stop.

Back in  January,  when  the  First  Cav  entered  across  the  Drina  on  a  pontoon  bridge, they  had  found  a  land  reminiscent  of  the  great  standoffs  of  World  War  I.  Trenches laced the fields, which  held  scarecrows  dressed  like  soldiers.  Black  ravens  punctuated the  white  snow.  Skeletons  broke  beneath  their  Humvee  tires.  People  emerged  from ruins  bearing  flintlocks,  even  crossbows  and  spears.  Urban  fighters  had  dug  up  their own  plumbing  pipes  to  make  weapons.  Branch  did  not  want  to  save  them,  for  they were  savage  and did not want to be saved.

He  reached  the  command  and  communications  bunker.  For  a  moment  in  the  dark rain,  the  earthen  mound  loomed  like  some  half-made  ziggurat,  more  primitive  than the first Egyptian pyramid.  He  went  up  a  few  steps,  then  descended  steeply  between piled sandbags.

Inside,  banks  of  electronics  lined  the  back  wall.  Men  and  women  in  uniform  sat  at tables, their faces illuminated by  laptop  computers.  The  overhead  lights  were  dim  for screen reading.

There  was an audience of maybe  three  dozen. It  was early  and cold for  such  waiting. Rain beat  without pause against the rubber  door flaps above  and behind him.

'Hey, Major. Welcome back. Here, I knew this was for someone.'

Branch  saw  the  cup  of  hot  chocolate  coming,  and  crossed  two  fingers  at  it.  'Back, fiend,'  he  said,  not  altogether  joking.  Temptation  lay  in  the  minutiae.  It  was  entirely possible to go soft in a combat zone, especially one as well fed as Bosnia. In the spirit of the Spartans, he declined the Doritos, too. 'Anything started?'  he asked.

'Not a peep.' With a greedy  sip, McDaniels made Branch's chocolate his own.

Branch   checked   his   watch.   'Maybe   it's   over   and   done   with.   Maybe   it   never happened.'

'O ye  of little faith,' the skinny gunship  pilot  said.  'I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.  We  all did.'

All  except  Branch  and  his  copilot,  Ramada.  Their  last  three  days  had  been  spent overflying  the  south  in  search  of  a  missing  Red  Crescent  convoy.  They'd  returned dog-tired to this midnight excitement.  Ramada was here already,  eagerly  scanning  his E-mail from home at a spare duty  station.

'Wait'll  you  review  the  tapes,'  McDaniels  said.  'Strange  shit.  Three  nights  running. Same time. Same place. It's  turning into a very  popular draw. We ought to sell tickets.' It  was  standing-room  only.  Some  were  soldiers  sitting  behind  laptop  duty  station computers  hardwired  into  Eagle  base  down  at  Tuzla.  But  tonight  the  majority  were civilians  in  ponytails  or  bad  goatees  or  PX  T-shirts  that  read  I  SURVIVED  OPERATION JOINT ENDEAVOR or BEAT ALL  THAT YOU  CAN BEAT, with the  mandatory  'Meat'  scrawled underneath in Magic Marker.  Some  of  the  civilians  were  old,  but  most  were  as  young as the soldiers.