Paul moved his jaw. This suit had taken getting used to, that’s for sure. He had to shift his jaw slightly to the left. Ah, there it was.
The visor zoomed the night-vision picture. Paul squinted. He couldn’t believe it.
“Looks like soldiers,” Romo said.
Paul grunted. That’s what he thought, too. He saw South American soldiers running across the snow, hundreds of them, many thousands of poor slobs. They weren’t running north at the American lines, but south, fleeing from the defenders.
He’d read some reports on the Venezuelans. They were warm-weather soldiers and had done well this summer. Likely, none of them had ever faced a winter like this. Maybe as importantly, Venezuelans didn’t feel the same about the war as the imperialistic Brazilians. Venezuelan hearts weren’t in the fight, and that made a huge difference sitting in a trench in the middle of America during an Ice Age storm and a violent assault by troops burning for serious payback.
“I don’t get it,” Kline said. “Who are those other soldiers attacking?”
In silence, Paul watched the dark horde. He had listened to the SOCOM captain during the briefing session. This was Operation Saturn. Of course, Paul had noticed the build-up of American troops for weeks. This part of the American defenses had crawled with new troops: Militiamen, Canadians, East Coast regulars and the hardened veterans of the earlier Midwestern battles.
“Those soldiers out there,” Paul said, “they’re not attacking.” Those boys were running away. As he scanned back and forth, Paul couldn’t spot a gun on them.
“They’re running away?” Kline asked.
Romo chuckled.
“Did I say something stupid?” Kline asked. He had a chip on his shoulder and was too aggressive. It seemed to Paul that Romo liked needling the new man.
“Our assault troops must have hit them pretty hard,” Paul said. “Maybe it’s our new Sleeper mines. They must be better than we were told.”
“The Venezuelans are coming our way,” Kline said, and for once, he sounded nervous.
Paul was well aware of where the enemy soldiers ran. The three of them were up on this small knoll behind enemy lines. This part of Nebraska didn’t have any real hills and nothing like the Rockies. At the bottom of the hill to the south were hidden three white snowmobiles with plenty of gas and other supplies.
“Don’t worry,” Paul said. “They’re not going to run all the way here. They’ll fall down from exhaustion long before that.”
Sergeant Kline swore soon after. “I don’t believe this. They just keep on coming. It looks as if the whole land is moving. There must be thousands, tens of thousands of them running away, which means running toward us.”
Paul silently agreed. What had caused this? Had it been the new Sleeper mines? They were deadly landmines fired into position by artillery tubes. Or had the Venezuelans buckled in the face of the assault troops launched across the ice? Before he left on this mission, Paul had seen the massed artillery. In his opinion, the government must have robbed every other park and site to put so many guns in one place. He actually pitied the poor slobs down there. He had listened in to some SOCOM chatter. The Venezuelans were sick of the cold and getting worried about reports of massing North Americans. Probably those boys sprinting across the snow just wanted to go home to their sweat señoritas.
“We need to call down an air strike,” Kline said. “This is the perfect moment to hit them.”
Paul didn’t say anything to that. He watched the masses of men running away from the flashes on the horizon. The enemy soldiers were doing a bunk, all right. Let them run, was his feeling.
“He is right,” Romo told Paul.
“Yeah?” asked Paul.
“They are scared now,” Romo said, “and out in the open. In time, they will regain their courage and their sanity. Now they are easy targets for a napalm strike.”
Paul stared at Romo. Like him, the man lay chest-first on the snow, looking like a white-armored version of the old Iron Man movies. Paul could well imagine Romo lifting a palm and firing a magnetic repulser ray. With these suit heaters, they could lie in the snow all day. Too bad they couldn’t fly.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a cold-hearted bastard?” Paul asked his friend.
“I have heard it said, yes,” Romo replied.
Paul had a bad taste in his mouth. Despite that, he knew Romo was right. With his suit, he radioed in to SOCOM HQ. He told them what he saw and requested