The Descent

'Me too.' Teague's  monotone.

'Roger that,' Schulbe said. It  was like listening to sharks  speak.

'Say go, Major, he's smoke.'

'Disengage,' Branch radioed urgently,  aghast at their lights. So  this  is  how  it  is  to  be my enemy. 'It's Ramada. Don't shoot.'

'I'm  vectoring  more  presence,'  Master  Sergeant  Jefferson  reported.  'Two,  four,  five more  heat  images,  two  hundred  meters  southeast,  coordinates  Charlie  Mike  eight three...'

Mac cut through. 'You sure, Major? Be sure.'

The  lasers did not desist. They  went on scrawling twitchy  designs on the lost  soldier. Even  with  the  help  of  their  neurotic   doodles,  even   with  the   stark   clarity   of  his nearness, Branch was not sure he wanted to be sure this was his navigator.

He ascertained the man by  what was left of him. His rejoicing died.

'It's him,' Branch said mournfully. 'It  is.'

Except  for  his  boots,  Ramada  was  naked  and  bleeding  from  head  to  foot.  He  looked like  a  runaway  slave,  freshly  flayed.  Flesh  trailed  in  rags  from  his  ankles.  Serbs? Branch wondered in awe.

He   remembered   the   mob   in   Mogadishu,   the   dead   Rangers   dragged   behind Technicals. But that kind of savagery  took  time,  and  they  couldn't  have  crashed  more than ten or fifteen minutes ago. The  crash, he considered, perhaps the  Plexiglas.  What else could have  shredded him like this?

'Bobby,' he called softly.

Roberto Ramada lifted his head.

'No,' whispered Branch.

'What's going on down there,  Major? Over.'

'His eyes,'  said Branch. They  had taken  his eyes.

'You're breaking up... Tango...'

'Say again, say  again...'

'His eyes  are gone.'

'Say again, eyes  are...'

'The bastards  took his eyes.' Schulbe: 'His eyes?'

Teague:  'But why?'

There  was a moment's pause.

Then Base registered.  '...new sighting, Echo Tango One. Do you copy...'

Mac  came  on  with  his  cyber-voice.  'We're  picking  up  a  new  set  of  bogeys,  Major. Five  thermal shapes. On foot. They  are closing on your  position.'

Branch barely  heard him.

Ramada stumbled as if burdened by  their laser beams. Branch realized the truth. Ramada  had  tried  to  flee  through  the  forest.  But  it  was  not  Serbs  who  had  turned him back. The  forest itself had refused to let him pass.

'Animals,' Branch murmured.

'Say again, Major.'

Wild  animals.  On  the  edge  of  the  twenty-first  century,  Branch's  navigator  had  just been eaten by  wild animals.

The  war  had  created  wild  animals  out  of  domestic  pets.  It  had  freed  beasts  from zoos  and  circuses  and  sent  them  into  the  wilderness.  Branch  was  not  shocked  by  the presence  of  animals.  The  abandoned  coal  tunnels  would  have  made  an  ideal  niche  for them.  But  what  kind  of  animal  took  your  eyes?  Crows,  perhaps,  though  not  at  night, not  that  Branch  had  ever  heard  of.  Owls,  maybe?  But  surely  not  while  the  prey  was still alive?

'Echo Tango One...'

'Bobby,' Branch said again.

Ramada turned toward his name and opened his mouth in reply.  What emerged  was more blood than vowel. His tongue, too, was gone.

And  now  Branch  saw  the  arm.  Ramada's  left  arm  had  been  stripped  of  all  flesh below the elbow. The  forearm was fresh bone.

The  blinded navigator beseeched his savior. All that emerged  was a mewl.

'Echo Tango One, please be apprised...'

Branch shucked the helmet and let it hang  by  the  cord  outside  the  cockpit.  Mac  and Master  Sergeant  Jefferson  and  Christie  Chambers  would  have  to  wait.  He  had  mercy to  perform.  If  he  did  not  bring  Ramada  in,  the  man  would  blunder   on  into  the wilderness.  He  would  drown  in  the  mass  grave,  or  the  carnivores  would  take  him down for good.

Summoning all his Appalachian strength,  Branch forced  himself  upright  and  pressed away  from the ship. He stepped  toward his poor navigator.

'Everything  will be okay,' he spoke to his friend. 'Can you come closer to me?' Ramada  was  at  the  far  edge  of  his  sanity.  But  he  responded.  He  turned  in  Branch's direction.  Forgetful,  the  hideous  bone  lifted  to  take  Branch's  hand,  even  though  it lacked a hand itself.

Branch avoided the amputation and got one arm around Ramada's waist and  hoisted him closer. They  both collapsed against the ruins of their helicopter.

It   was   a  blessing  of   sorts,   Ramada's   horrible   condition.   Branch   felt   freed   by comparison.  Now  he  could  dwell  on  wounds  far  worse  than  his  own.  He  laid  the navigator across his lap and palmed away  the gore and mud on his face.

While he held his friend, Branch listened to the dangling helmet.

'...One, Echo Tango One...' The  mantra went on.

He  sat  in  the  mud  with  his  back  against  the  ship,  clutching  his  fallen  angel: Pietà  in the mire. Ramada's limbs fell mercifully limp.

'Major,' Jefferson sang in the near silence. 'You are in danger. Do you copy?'