The night before they were separated, Hawker, Green and Symington went out together on the town. Wartime Beijing was a strangely subdued city; unlike the African metropolises of the previous war, it had not yet discovered the lucrative business of catering to the needs of soldiers on leave. Symington, though, had an instinctive knack for finding the places with the most action. The three friends drank well into the night, swearing their undying friendship for one another and vowing to get together again when this war was over. None of them really thought they would, though;they knew too well the odds against the three of them surviving the coming war. Even if they did all live through the experience, the army had a million ways to keep friends apart. When they separated, it was likely to be for keeps.

Hawker joined his new outfit the next day. It was a convoy detail escorting shipments of arms and supplies to outlying districts. Hawker and the team a.s.signed to him were supposed to ride shotgun and make sure the equipment was delivered to the proper people-or, if an ambush developed, to blow up the trucks and make certain the supplies did not end up in enemy hands. Hawker was given the authority to kill as many of his men and destroy as much of the convoy as necessary-and that scared him.

He was scared, too, by the responsibilities of command that were suddenly thrust upon him. There were officers above him in this unit, and theoretically his influence was small. But practice turned out to be another matter altogether. When it came to combat experience, the officers were as green as the ordinary sluggos-and they were fresh out of boot camp in most cases. Everyone in the outfit knew that Hawker was one of the "sleepers," and he was looked upon as the Old Man of the group. It was startling to realize that technically he was the oldest man in the unit, beating out even the captain by several years even though he looked no older than most of the other recruits.

Hawker was ill at ease with his new position. He was constantly being asked for advice-and for a man who hated talking as much as he did this was almost physically painful. He could not simply answer with a few well-chosen words; it was his duty, he knew, to provide instruction with his advice. He had to let the others know why things were done one certain way and not another, and he often had trouble elucidating his reasons. He had developed an instinct for survival in enemy territory. Certain things felt wrong-but how could he put that feeling into words?

His position within the unit was awkward, too. The officers above him felt he undermined their authority because the men went to him for advice instead of to them-and also because they sometimes had to consult him themselves, which was humiliating. The other recruits resented him because he was one of them, but slightly better. Physically he was as young as they were, but he was given preferential treatment that they would have liked themselves.Because of his unique position, Hawker had no friends within his outfit.

The other men's hostility never flared into open fights or insults, but Hawker could feel it tangibly nonetheless. He ate alone and was never included in the friendly byplay that made life at the front barely tolerable.

As far as anyone was concerned, he was a man from outer s.p.a.ce, hated and respected at the same time.

Hawker's convoys had little contact with the enemy- a few firefights and skirmishes, but only a couple of minor injuries, no casualties and no serious threats to the safety of the convoy itself. Whether this was due to his expert precautions, or whether he just had a cushy a.s.signment, he couldn't say-but he knew he could never dare relax as long as he was here, because that would be the moment things went wrong.

It was, naturally enough, his last convoy that hit the big trouble. The convoy was nearing its destination, a small base guarding a mountain pa.s.s, and everyone aboard was thinking how good it would be to reach the end of the line so they could dump their cargo and return home the next day. Return trips were, if no less dangerous, then certainly less burdensome. Home base also had bathing facilities lacking in the outlying areas, and that in itself was no mean consideration. The men got tired of their own sweat very quickly.

It had started to rain, and the trucks were having a hard time pulling their loads up the steep slopes along roads that were little more than dirt tracks. Suddenly, in the distance ahead of them, they could hear the repeated sound of gunfire. The trucks stopped instantly and the men reached for their rifles, but they realized almost at once that the shooting was not directed at them. It came from their destination, the small firebase ahead. The enemy was attacking it in strength, trying to capture it while it was low on supplies and perhaps get into position to take the supplies for themselves.

The convoy's captain called ahead and received a harried description of the situation. A savage bout of dysentery had reduced the effective manpower to almost half the complement, even before the attack. The base had the advantage of position-it was well fortified on top of a hill-but that was about all. The Ruc.h.i.n.ks were charging in waves, taking heavy casualties in a determined effort to capture the base. The bad weather was impeding satellite a.s.sistance, and other attacks elsewhere along this line were keeping air retaliation busy. Unless additionalammunition from the convoy could be delivered quickly, the firebase was likely to be overrun, giving the enemy free access to the valley beyond.

The convoy captain looked at Hawker, then made a decision on his own: the convoy would move forward and try to reinforce the firebase at all costs. Hawker did not speak up or object to that plan; he wasn't even sure that he should, since he had no better idea in mind himself. But it did seem that driving straight into the face of danger was not the safest course open. He gripped his rifle tighter and prepared for action.

They had almost made it to the base when they saw some forms approaching quickly through the gloom. The men in the front trucks raised their weapons and prepared to fire, but held up long enough to establish that the soldiers were government troops fleeing the base. The fortress had been overrun, and the enemy was approaching quickly. This entire valley would belong to the rebels by sunrise.

The captain had a tough decision. There was no room for his trucks to turn around on these narrow mountain roads, and he could scarcely order them to back downhill in the rain. At the same time, moving forward was suicide. Reluctantly, he decided to make a stand where he was. He radioed back to headquarters, informing them of his predicament and begging for help. Headquarters was noncommittal, saying they would do what they could, when they could. The convoy was on its own.

The captain gave orders for his men to leave the trucks and take up positions in front and to either side. At the same time, he gave orders to ready the convoy for demolition, should the Ruc.h.i.n.ks overcome them.

These supplies must not fall into enemy hands.

Hawker didn't bother worrying about those considerations. While it was true he had the authority to order the trucks blown up, there were still a captain, a lieutenant and several sergeants ranking above him to make that decision. As long as any of them was alive, he could let them have the responsibility. He was particularly responsible for making sure the men behaved well under fire, and this was his first real opportunity to test himself and them.

The refugees from the captured fortress came in waves, now. Some of them were fleeing so fast that they ran right past the convoy's barricade, but most slowed their flight and ended up joining the lines of defense. The additional support made Hawker feel slightly more confident, but thesituation would still be rather touchy. Everything depended on how badly the enemy had depleted its own troops in taking the base; if the Ruc.h.i.n.ks were too badly hurt themselves, perhaps they wouldn't follow up on their victory and keep their opponents on the run.

Perhaps. Hawker had learned by now not to live on such fragile hopes.

As he'd feared, the rebels did want to pursue the battle and keep the loyalists running. Even before Hawker could catch sight of the enemy, his comrades at the other side of the line had opened fire on the advancing soldiers. The rainy atmosphere was soon peppered with the sound of gunshots, and Hawker could hear stray bullets whizzing past his location.

He told the men around him to hold their fire until they had a clearer target-but it wasn't long before the enemy came into view, advancing slowly through the gloom of a drizzly dusk.

The fighting continued on and off for half an hour, but it was very clear to Hawker that it was little more than a holding action; the Ruc.h.i.n.ks had superior manpower, and were just waiting for the proper moment to regroup and make their decisive charge. Unless the convoy could be reinforced by airstrikes from home base, there was little to prevent their position from being overrun-and home base was still diddling around about committing themselves to support this rearguard action. Hawker had been in the army long enough to know when he was being considered expendable-and he didn't much like it.

The battlefield suddenly grew ominously still as the Ruc.h.i.n.ks ceased firing for several minutes and drew back slightly from their forward positions. The captain and lieutenant conferred, then sent the word out over the walkie-talkies: the enemy was probably preparing for its big charge, and the convoy had only one major trick up its sleeve. When the rebels came rushing in, the convoy would blow up the trucks, hoping to cause enough confusion to allow the men to escape.

Nothing was said about the pattern of retreat. Hawker correctly surmised it would be every man for himself.

The charge came moments later, hundreds of Ruc.h.i.n.ks-looking dirty and ill-clad, but very well-armed- running down the hill through the rain, screaming and shooting as they came. Hawker and his fellows fell back, as ordered, drawing the enemy into range. Then, with blinding suddenness, half the hillside exploded into day.The trucks had been rigged ahead of time to provide a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. They exploded in sequence rather than all at once, providing almost a full minute of blasts that shook the ground and lit the countryside as bright as the noonday sun. Hawker hit the ground and buried himself face down in the mud, counting the explosions-one for each truck. Rocks and debris tossed skyward by the blasts pelted down on him, and even after the last truck had blown he waited several seconds before getting to his feet again and looking around to get his bearings.

The scene was chaotic, to put it mildly. Soldiers from both sides were lying dead in the road, having been too near the trucks when they exploded. Still others lay dying or injured-and from what Hawker had seen of this war so far, there was little concern about tending the wounded. Most of them would probably die, slowly and painfully. Of the rest, many were still recovering from the shock of the blasts. If ever there was a time to escape, this was it.

Crouching low to hide himself in the tall gra.s.s and boulders alongside the road, Hawker began his awkward run from the scene of the battle.

Home base was more than fifty kilometers away, but he didn't think he'd have to travel that far on foot; there were advance patrols out constantly, and if he could hook in with one of them he could ride the rest of the way home. Everything depended, though, on his staying alive between here and there.

He tripped over something lying hidden in the gra.s.s, and nearly went sprawling; only quick reflexes and a good sense of balance kept him on his feet. He looked back to see what had upset him, and saw that it was a body dressed in a U.S. uniform. That in itself was no indication-rebel soldiers frequently dressed in captured uniforms to fool the loyalists-but the man was also black, which almost guaranteed his being on Hawker's side. The enemy forces were mostly Chinese, aided sometimes by Russians who were white or Eurasian; any blacks were sure to be Americans.

The man at first appeared dead, and Hawker started to move on when the fellow moaned softly. Torn between the desire to run and the impulse at least to check the extent of the other's injuries, Hawker stood still for a moment. Then his humanitarian instincts won out, and he moved to the black man's side. "Take it easy," he whispered. "Don't make any noise, or they'll spot us. Let me see how you're doing."

He rolled the man over on his back, and recognized him almostimmediately. It was Thaddeus Connors.

Connors was bleeding from a bullet hole in his abdomen. He'd lost a lot of blood already, and the wound showed no signs of closing. His face was contorted with pain and it was unlikely, in his condition and in the fading light of dusk, that he recognized Hawker. He tried to talk, but the pain was too great and he could only gasp a couple of syllables.

"I've seen men live with worse," Hawker said, reaching for the first-aid kit at his belt. He remembered the all-too-brief lecture on the items in the kit, including bandages coated with their own coagulant to r.e.t.a.r.d bleeding. "Just press the bandage against the wound," the instructor had said, "and hold it there tightly until the bleeding stops. If it takes more than two minutes, move on-the patient's beyond your help."

There was little light left to see what he was doing-just the rapidly fading light of a rain-soaked day and the distant fires of the burning trucks. Hawker ripped off the paper covering and held the bandage tightly to Connors's stomach. Whatever the chemical was, it seemed to work; the bleeding stopped in less than two minutes, and Hawker used some of his kit's adhesive tape to secure the bandage in place. Connors had pa.s.sed out in the meantime and Hawker, kneeling beside him, sat back on his heels to think what he should do next.

He owed nothing to Connors, beyond what any human being owed to another. The man had always been hostile to him-and dangerously so in that men's room incident. Hawker didn't like him, and his mind could make a good case for abandoning the man right here beside the road. He'd already done more than his share by stopping the bleeding; he'd perhaps saved Connors's life. He had his own welfare to consider; why jeopardize himself to aid a man who'd been nothing but trouble?

There was not a single good reason-except that Hawker had been raised with the belief that one had to help one's fellow man. For all his belligerence, Connors was still a colleague-and he was one of the few remaining people from Hawker's own world of the past, one of the few who could understand the special problems of being dissociated from normal time. For that alone, Connors was valuable to him.

Hawker pondered the problem. They certainly couldn't stay here if they hoped to escape. Even if the rebels didn't see them during the night, they'd have almost no chance of avoiding detection tomorrow. Their main hopewas to be far enough away from here by morning that the enemy would have to spread out more to conduct a search.

The night would be both blessing and hindrance. Its darkness would give Hawker and his patient cover to slip back toward home base secretly; the rebels' nighttime detection equipment had never been very effective. If they could make reasonably good time during the night, they could find someplace to hide and sleep during the day.

On the other hand, traveling at night would hold its own hazards for them. There were large stretches of ground between here and the base that had been mined by one side or the other; it didn't matter whose mine he stepped on, the end results would not be pretty. The road itself was safe; it was regularly swept clean of mines. But staying directly on the road meant being more easily spotted by enemy snipers...

Hawker shook his head as he found his mind traveling around in circles. He would have to improvise some form of compromise, traveling near the road to minimize the risk of mines, but not so near that the enemy would spot him.

Looking down at his patient, he could see that Connors's eyes were open again. The man was conscious and breathing a little more easily. "Feeling ready to move?" Hawker asked him. They'd already tarried here far too long; the enemy troops would be advancing soon to s.n.a.t.c.h as much territory under cover of darkness as they could.

Connors gave a short, bitter laugh. "Ain't no good, man," he said. "I'm dead."

"Naw, you're only lazy, just like all you n.i.g.g.e.rs."

That did it. Hawker could see the spark of fire returning to Connors's eyes. "Motherf.u.c.kin' honky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said. "You just get me on my feet and I'll show you who's lazy." He grabbed Hawker's upper arm to use as a crutch, and pulled himself up so hard that Hawker was almost yanked off balance. Connors made it to his feet, though, and stood for a moment swaying unsteadily. He was obviously weak from the loss of blood.

"I figured we could walk back to base," Hawker whispered. "You can put your arm around my shoulders and lean on me...""f.u.c.k that s.h.i.t! Thaddeus Connors don't lean on no white man."

"Suit yourself. But we've got to get going now, or the Ruc.h.i.n.ks'll be crawling up our a.s.ses."

Hawker led the way, bending over and walking parallel to the road but about twenty meters from it. Connors followed much more slowly, but too proud to take any help. Hawker felt frustrated that, despite the ever present peril, they couldn't move any faster than a wounded man could stagger. Time after time, the thought occurred to him that he could travel better alone. He could find a safe hiding place for Connors and go on until he reached safety, then send a team back for the man. But no matter how tempting the idea, he never once mentioned it. Connors was his responsibility for the moment. He might hate that fact, but there was little he could do to change it.

Connors stumbled and fell several times, but each time Hawker came over to help him up, the other waved him away and struggled back to his feet himself. Although Hawker had been proud of his little stratagem for getting Connors moving, he was now beginning to wonder whether it was entirely wise. It would be of little use if Connors walked himself to death rather than admit he needed Hawker's help.

Hawker estimated they'd covered about four kilometers when Connors fell and could not get to his feet again. Sitting beside his fallen companion, Hawker tried to make it sound as though stopping here had been his idea all along. "I think we're far enough from the battle to be safe for the night.

We'll rest here till dawn, then find a place to hide during the day. We can travel some more tomorrow night."

There was no answer; Connors had already pa.s.sed out. With a sigh, Hawker moved a few meters away and found a comfortable spot where he could lean against a small boulder. He unslung his rifle from his back, set it on automatic and laid it gently on his lap. Leaning back against his rock, he closed his eyes and allowed the fatigue of the day's tensions to wash over him. Like most soldiers, Hawker had learned the knack of resting whenever he could grab the time; within minutes he had fallen asleep, leaving the worries and insecurities until the next morning.

He woke with the first light of dawn and sat still for a moment, allowing the recollections of the previous night to filter back into his brain. His body was stiff from having spent the night on the cold ground in anawkward position. After looking around to-make sure he would not be seen by any Ruc.h.i.n.ks in the area, Hawker stood up and stretched his muscles, then went over to check his patient. Connors was still unconscious.

Hawker next checked their environment. They had made it down the mountainside during the night, and were now in a field a dozen meters from the road.

There was not a person in sight; nothing moved except a few birds circling lazily overhead. The sky had partially cleared after the night's rainfall; patches of blue sky showed between the clouds. Perhaps when the sun came up it would actually be warm. Hawker looked forward to that; his uniform was still cold and soggy from last night.

There was a drainage ditch off to the left. It would provide the best cover around here during the day. With great difficulty he lifted Connors up under the arms and dragged him slowly across the ground to the ditch, then eased the man down into it and crawled in himself. Only then did he feel reasonably secure.

He hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday, and his belly was loudly reminding him of that fact. He did have some protein tablets in the survival kit on his belt, but he was reluctant to take them yet. He didn't know how much longer he'd be stranded out here before he could reach the base, and he might need the tablets more desperately later. He'd gone hungry before in the army; he could stand another day or so before resorting to the pills.

Water was another matter. The drainage ditch contained several large muddy puddles; the water didn't look very appealing now, but it might later. His canteen was about half full, and he noticed that Connors had his canteen, too, though Hawker didn't know how much it contained. With any luck, they'd have enough fluids to last them until they reached help.

Connors awoke shortly after sunup. He still seemed very much in pain, but was resolved not to show it. The two men stared silently across the ditch at one another for several minutes before Connors broke the silence.

"You're a sleeper too, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Hawker said."Thought I recognized you. You're the dude who hangs around with f.u.c.kface and the Jew-boy, right?"

Hawker said nothing, afraid of being unable to hold back his temper.

He disliked having people say nasty things about his friends-particularly people whose lives he'd just saved.

"Always the quiet one. Why'd you let them sucker you into signing up for this s.h.i.t?"

Hawker shrugged. "I don't know. It just felt like the thing to do."

"Stupid," Connors said, shaking his head.

Hawker could contain his anger no longer. "If you're so f.u.c.king smart, how come you're here?"

"Mind your own f.u.c.king business." The wound had done little to improve Connors's congeniality. The two men didn't speak the rest of the morning.

By midafternoon, though, Connors's condition became more serious.

Though the sun had broken through the clouds and was warming the ground, the wounded man was taken by a shivering fit. He squirmed in the mud and clutched his stomach, his teeth chattering audibly. Hawker moved over to his side. "Let me have a look at that."

"I'll be okay," Connors insisted.

Hawker ignored the other's protests and bent over for a closer examination. The wound had not reopened, but the area immediately around it was looking pale and puffy. He touched the region experimentally and Connors cried out in pain.

Hawker pulled back and frowned. He was no medic, and he wasn't sure what to do now. Checking his first-aid kit, he found a packet of pills labeled "general antibiotic," and another couple of pills that promised to be strong painkillers. He gave one of each to Connors, who was by now shivering so badly he could barely swallow them. Hawker remembered reading somewhere that wrapping a person in blankets was supposed to help-but he had no blankets, only the clothes each of them was wearing.

Even if Hawker were to strip and wrap his own clothes around Connors, itwould do little good; the clothes were still pretty wet from their soaking the night before. He left Connors as he was, and returned to his spot a few meters away where he could watch the other's progress.

Despite the pills, Connors only seemed to get worse. His shivering fits increased in intensity and his moaning grew louder. He drifted in and out of consciousness and thrashed about on the ground, sometimes so violently that Hawker had to come over and restrain him to prevent the man from hurting himself. Connors began mumbling to himself, too-quietly, at first, but as his fever mounted his voice grew in volume until Hawker could not help overhearing the delirious ravings.

"I killed him!" Connors cried out during one fit of convulsions. "My G.o.d, I killed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Hawked moved over and held him steady. "We've all killed people," he said soothingly. "It's not fun, but that's what war's all about."

Connors sat up suddenly and stared into Hawker's face. His eyes were wide open, the whites glistening and his pupils reduced to a pair of black pinpoints. There was a mad, uncomprehending quality about them that sent a chill up Hawker's spine.

"Not pigs, man, we don't kill pigs!" Connors's voice was harsh and rasping.

Hawker was so startled by Connors's sudden action that it took the words a few moments to settle into his brain. "A cop?" he asked. "You killed a cop?"

"I had to, man. He was coming at me, had a gun. I had to."

"Where was this? When?"

"Detroit. I was seventeen." Connors closed his eyes and began another series of convulsions. "No, keep him away, I won't kill him again. Gotta run, gotta keep running." He started screaming, and Hawker had to cup a hand over his mouth to shut him up. It would do them no good at all if enemy soldiers heard the shouts and came to investigate.

The fit eventually wore off, as the previous ones had, and Connors lapsed back into unconsciousness. His delirious revelations, though, gaveHawker something to think about as he sat there resting in the ditch, not quite daring to sleep for fear of discovery. Connors's raving may simply have been nightmares induced by this fever, with no basis in reality at all.

It was hard to put much credence in anything the man said while he was in this condition.

But if it were true, if Connors actually had killed a policeman in Detroit during his youth, it would answer a lot of questions. He would be on the run, hiding out in the Army during a war. The army was a large impersonal machine where it was easy for an individual to get lost. And since there was no statute of limitations on murder, Connors might be afraid to leave. It was fear of being forced into the outside world that had prompted his volunteering for the experiment, despite the fact that he thought it was stupid and dangerous. Being forced into the program against his will, he would be sensitive about his reasons- sensitive enough to draw a knife on Symington when the latter innocently remarked on it in the rest room of that bar.

There was no doubt about it. Connors had a temper that could lead him to murder, and he was sensitive about something. That was a dangerous combination. Perhaps, Hawker thought, he should have left Connors back there at the convoy anyway, and saved himself and everyone else a lot of trouble.

He had started this course of action, though, and he had to follow it through. Hawker was not an imaginative man, and once set upon a path he followed it doggedly until its conclusion. He made himself responsible for Connors's safety, and he couldn't abandon him until either Connors was dead or the two of them had been rescued.

Connors's fever broke shortly before sundown, and by the time the sun was an hour past the horizon he was awake and coherent once more. He seemed to have no memory of what had happened during his delirium, and Hawker was reluctant to bring the subject up. If it were true, and Connors thought Hawker knew his "secret," G.o.d alone knew what he might do when both were safely back at the base.

Instead Hawker knelt beside his patient and said, "Feel like taking a little walk?"

"No," said Connors. "But I will anyway." He rolled over and got slowly to his feet under his own power. If anything, he seemed slightly stronger forhaving undergone his ordeal than he was last night, giving Hawker hope that they might cover more ground tonight.

They set off, walking at a slow but steady pace, and Connors seemed to be making a genuine effort to keep up with Hawker's impatient strides.

Hawker kept a careful watch on the other man's progress, and insisted on frequent rest breaks whenever he thought Connors was being pushed too hard. At one point during the night they pa.s.sed a small cl.u.s.ter of farm buildings, but they did not dare approach. There was no telling which side of the conflict the inhabitants were on, and Hawker preferred the calculated risk of staying outside to the unknown hazards of approaching these people.

Even with their frequent stops and slow pace, Hawker estimated they had covered about ten kilometers when the sky began glowing in the east.

They found their shelter this time in a bombed-out shed. This area had seen much fighting in the past few months, and was spa.r.s.ely inhabited.

Connors slept most of the day, and Hawker dozed fitfully off and on, waking abruptly, rifle in hand, at any slight sound around them.

Connors was worse again that night. The pain of his wound, combined with the food deprivation and the strenuous activity, made him barely able to stand. He was in so much pain, in fact, that he raised no objection when Hawker came over and slid Connors's arm around his shoulder, letting the black man lean on him as a crutch. Even so, they could barely travel three kilometers when Connors collapsed again, and Hawker knew they would go no farther tonight. To make matters worse, the fever had returned. Hawker gritted his teeth in despair and frustration that he might have been able to get Connors this far only to have the man die anyway because Hawker was unable to give him the specialized care he needed.

Hawker must have dozed, because he suddenly found himself waking up with the light of dawn in his eyes. It wasn't the light that had awakened him, though, but a sound-the distant sound of an automobile engine. He checked his rifle and rose slowly to a half-crouch. He was about forty meters from the road at this point, and he looked cautiously along its length in both directions. There in the distance he could make out a small convoy of jeeps traveling slowly down the b.u.mpy trail. They were coming from the direction of home base, and as they approached Hawker could see the markings that designated them as U.S. government property.Standing up fully, he started waving and yelling in an effort to attract their attention and flag them down. The driver of the front jeep spotted him and said something to his companion. This second man suddenly raised his rifle and fired at Hawker. The bullet whizzed just past his ear.

Cursing, Hawker dived headlong to the ground, but not quite in time.

There was a sharp pain in his left leg as a bullet hit his thigh, and the pain was compounded by the sharp impact as his belly hit the earth and the breath was knocked from his lungs. He almost blacked out, but managed to hold onto consciousness. He had dropped his rifle a few meters away when he fell, and he crawled back to retrieve it. The jeep had accelerated and left the road, and was almost upon him, but there had been no further shots since the one that hit his leg.

"Hold it, Corporal, he's one of us," he heard the driver of the jeep say to the man who'd done the shooting, just as Hawker managed to pick up his own rifle and fumble it around in his hands so that it was pointing in the jeep's general direction. Then, to Hawker, the driver added, "Take it easy, pal, we're on your side."