The Descent

Branch  felt  suddenly  overwhelmed.  It  struck  him  as  obscene  that  these  dead  men and boys should be  cheated  of  their  only  concealment.  Because  of  the  awful  way  they had  died,  these  dead  were  destined  to  be  hauled  back  into  the  light  by  one  party  or another  –  if  not  by  the  Serbs,  then  by  Chambers  and  her  pack  of  hounds,  perhaps over  and over  again. In this  gruesome  condition  they  would  be  seen  by  their  mothers

and wives  and sons and daughters and the sight would haunt their loved ones forever.

'I'll go,' he heard himself say.

When the colonel  saw  it  was  Branch  who  had  spoken,  his  face  collapsed.  'Major?'  he said. Et tu?

In that instant,  the  universe  revealed  depths  Branch  had  failed  to  estimate  or  even dream.  For  the  first  time  he  realized  that  he  was  a  favorite  son  and  that  the  colonel had  hoped  in  his  heart  to  hand  on  the  division  to  him  someday.  Too  late,  Branch comprehended the magnitude of his betrayal.

Branch  wondered  what  had  made  him  do  it.  Like  the  colonel,  he  was  a  soldier's soldier.  He  knew  the  meaning  of  duty,  cared  for  his  men,  understood  war  as  a  trade rather  than  a  calling,  shirked  no  hardship,  and  was  as  brave  as  wisdom  and  rank allowed.  He  had  measured  his  shadow  under  foreign  suns,  had  buried  friends,  taken wounds, caused grief among his enemies.

For  all  that,   Branch  did  not  see   himself  as  a   champion.   He   didn't   believe   in champions. The  age was too complicated.

And  yet  he  found  himself,  Elias  Branch,  advocating  the  proposition.  'Someone's  got to start  it,' he stated  with awful self-consciousness.

'It,' monotoned the colonel.

Not  quite  sure  even  what  he  meant  after  all,  Branch  did  not  try  to  define  himself.

'Sir,' he said, 'yes,  sir.'

'You find this so necessary?'

'It's just that we have  come so far.'

'I like to believe  that, too. What is it you hope to accomplish, though?'

'Maybe,' said Branch, 'maybe  this time we can look into their eyes.'

'And then?'

Branch felt naked and foolish and alone. 'Make them answer.'

'But their answer will be false,' said the colonel. 'It  always  is. What then?' Branch was confused.

'Make them quit, sir.' He swallowed.

Unbidden,  Ramada  came  to  Branch's  rescue.  'With  permission,  sir,'  he  said.  'I'll volunteer to go with the major, sir.'

'And me,' said McDaniels.

From around the room, three  other  crews  volunteered  also.  Without  asking,  Branch had himself an entire expeditionary  force of gunships. It  was a terrible  deed, a show  of support very  close to patricide. Branch bowed his head.

In  the  great  sigh  that  followed,  Branch  felt  himself  released  forever  from  the  old man's heart. It  was a lonely freedom and he did not want it, but now it was his.

'Go, then,' spoke the colonel.

0410

Branch led low, lights doused, blades cleaving the foul ceiling. The  other two Apaches prowled his wings, lupine, ferocious.

He  gave  the  bird  its  head  of  steam:  145  kph.  Get  this  thing  over  with.  By  dawn, flapjacks with bacon  for  his  gang  of  paladins,  some  rack  time  for  himself,  then  start  it all over.  Keeping the peace. Staying alive.

Branch  guided  them  through  the  darkness  by  instruments  he  hated.  As  far  as  he was  concerned,  night-vision  technology  was  an  act  of  faith  that  did  not  deserve  him. But tonight, with the sky  empty  of all but  his  platoon,  and  because  the  strange  peril  – this cloud of nitrogen  –  was  invisible  to  the  human  eye,  Branch  chose  to  rely  on  what his flight helmet's target-acquisition monocle and the optics pod were  displaying.

The  seat  screen and their monocles were  showing  a  virtual  Bosnia  transmitted  from base.  There  a  software  program  called  PowerScene  was  translating  all  the  current

images of their area from satellites, maps, a  Boeing  707  Night  Stalker  at  high  altitude, and  daytime  photos.  The  result  was  a  3-D  simulation  of  almost  real  time.  Ahead  lay the Drina as it had been just moments before.

On their virtual map,  Branch  and  Ramada  would  not  arrive  at  Zulu  Four  until  after they  had actually arrived  there.  It  took some getting used to. The  3-D  visuals  were  so good,  you  wanted  to  believe  in  them.  But  the  maps  were  never  true  maps  of  where you  were  going.  They  were  only  true  to  where  you'd  been,  like  a  memory  of  your future.

Zulu Four lay ten klicks southeast of Kalejsia in the direction of Srebrenica and other killing  fields  bordering  the  Drina  River.  Much  of  the  worst  destruction  was  clustered along this river  on the border of Serbia.

From the backseat  of the gunship, Ramada murmured, 'Glory,' as it came into view. Branch  flicked  his  attention  from  PowerScene  to  their  real-time  night  scan.  Up ahead, he saw what Ramada meant.