The Descent

'Branch.' Mac sounded violent and exhausted  and full of worries high above. 'They're coming for you. If you can hear me, take  cover. You must take  cover.'

They  didn't understand. Everything  was okay  now. He wanted to sleep. Mac went on yelling. '...thirty yards  out. Can you see them?'

If  he  could  have  reached  the  helmet  radio,  Branch  would  have  asked  them  to  calm down.  Their  commotion  was  agitating  Ramada.  He  could  hear  them,  obviously.  The more they  yelled, the more poor Ramada moaned and howled.

'Hush, Bobby.' Branch stroked  his bloody head.

'Twenty  yards  out. Dead ahead, Major. Do you see them?  Do you copy?'

Branch  indulged  Mac.  He  squinted  into  the  nitrous  mirage  enveloping  them.  It  was little  different  from  looking  through  a  glass  of  water.  Visibility  was  twenty  feet,  not yards,  beyond  which  the  forest  stood  warped  and  dreamlike.  It  made  his  head  ache. He nearly  gave  up. Then he caught a movement.

The  motion  was  peripheral.  It  pronounced  the  depths,  a  bit  of  pallor  in  the  dark woods. He glanced to the side, but it was gone.

'They're  fanning  out,  Major.  Hunter-killer  style.  If  you  copy,  get  away.  Repeat, begin escape and evasion.'

Ramada was grunting idiotically. Branch tried to quiet him,  but  the  navigator  was  in a panic. He pushed Branch's hand away  and hooted fearfully at the dead forest.

'Be quiet,' Branch whispered.

'We  see  you  on  the  infrared,  Major.  Presume  you  are  unable  to  move.  If  you  copy, get your  ass down.'

Ramada was going to give them away  with his noise.

Branch  looked  around  and  there,  close  at  hand,  his  oxygen  mask  was  dangling against the ship. Branch took it. He held it to Ramada's face.

It  worked. Ramada quit hooting. He took several  unabated pulls at the oxygen. Seizures followed a moment later.

Later,  people  would  not  blame  Branch  for  the  death.  Even  after  Army  coroners determined  that  Ramada's  death  was  accidental,  few  believed  Branch  had  not  meant to  kill  him.  Some  felt  it  showed  his  compassion  toward  this  mutilated  victim.  Others said  it  demonstrated  a  warrior's  self-preservation,  that  Branch  had  no  choice  under the circumstances.

Ramada   writhed   in   Branch's   embrace.   The   oxygen   mask   was   ripped   away. Ramada's agony burst  out in a howl.

'It will be okay,' Branch told him, and pushed the mask back into place. Ramada's spine arched. His cheeks sucked in and out. He clawed at Branch. Branch held on. He forced the oxygen  into Ramada like it was morphine. Slowly, Ramada quit fighting. Branch was sure it signified sleep.

Rain pattered  against the Apache. Ramada went limp.

Branch heard footsteps. The  sound faded. He lifted the mask. Ramada was dead.

In shock, Branch felt for a pulse.

He shook the body, no longer in torment.

'What have  I done?' Branch asked aloud. He rocked the navigator in his arms. The  helmet spoke in tongues. '...down... all around...'

'Locked. Ready  on...'

'Major, forgive me... cover... on my  command...'

Master  Sergeant  Jefferson  delivered  last  rites.  'In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of the Son...'

The  footsteps returned,  too heavy  for human, too fast.

Branch looked up barely  in time. The  nitrous screen gashed open.

He  was  wrong.  What  sprang  from  the  mirage  were  not  animals  like  any  on  earth. And yet  he recognized them.

'God,' he uttered,  eyes  wide.

'Fire,' spoke Mac.

Branch had known battle, but never  like this. This was not combat. It  was the end  of time.

The  rain  turned  to  metal.  Their  electric  miniguns  harrowed  the  earth,  chopped under  the  rich  soil,  evaporated  the  leaves  and  mushrooms  and  roots.  Trees  fell  in columns, like a castle breaking to pieces. His enemy  turned to road-kill.

The  gunships  drifted  invisibly  a  kilometer  out,  and  so  for  the  first  few  seconds Branch  saw  the  world  turn  inside  out  in  complete  silence.  The  ground  boiled  with bullets.

The  thunder caught up just as their rockets  reached in. Darkness vanished utterly.

No man was meant to survive  such light. It  went on for eternity.

They  found  Branch  still  sitting  against  his  shipwreck,  holding  his  navigator  across  his lap. The  metal skin was scorched black and hot to the touch. Like a shadow in  reverse, the  aluminum  behind  his  back  bore  his  pale  outline.  The  metal  was  immaculate, protected  by  his flesh and spirit.

After  that, Branch was never  the same.

It is therefore necessary for us to marke diligently, and to espie out this felowe... beware of him, that he begyle us not.

– RUDOLPH WALTHER, 'Antichrist, that is to saye: A true report...' (1576)

4

PERINDE AC CADAVER

Java

1998