and pulled the trout clear of the water.
"Three kilos, this one." She held it up.
At age ten Mike had caught a hundred-pound albacore, but this brown trout looked a lot bigger. He reeled in the line as Vigdis walked toward him. Ten pounds of fish in twenty minutes, he thought. We might just be able to live off the land yet.
The helicopter appeared without warning. There was a westerly wind--it had probably been patrolling the road to the east--and the aircraft was less than a mile away before they heard the stuttering sound of its five-bladed rotor headed right toward them. "Everyone freeze!" Smith yelled. The Marines were in good cover, but Mike and Vigdis were in the open.
"Oh, God," Edwards breathed. He finished reeling his line in. "Take the fish off the hook. Relax."
She looked at him as the helicopter approached, afraid to turn around toward the incoming chopper. Her hands shook as she worked the hook free of the wriggling trout.
"It's going to be all right, Vigdis." He wrapped his arm about her waist and walked slowly away from the stream. Her arm pulled his body close against hers. It came as a greater shock than the Russian chopper. She was stronger than he'd expected, and her arm was a heated path around his back and chest.
The chopper was less than five hundred yards off, bearing directly at them, nose down, the multibarreled gun trained directly at them.
He'd never make it, Edwards saw. His rifle was fifty feet away under his camouflage jacket. If he moved fast enough to get there, they'd know why. His legs were weak beneath him as he watched death approach.
Slowly, carefully, Vigdis moved the hand in which she held the fish. She used two fingers to grab Mike's hand at her waist, moving it up and around until it rested on her left breast. Then she held the fish high above her head. Mike dropped his rod and stooped to get the other trout. Vigdis followed his movements and managed to keep his left hand in place. Mike held up his fish as the Mi-24 attack helicopter hovered fifty yards away. Its rotor tossed up a circle of spray from the surrounding marsh.
"Go away," Mike rasped through his grinning teeth.
"My father loves to fish," the senior lieutenant said, manipulating the flight controls to Hover.
"Shit on the fish," the gunner snapped back. "I want to catch one of those. Look where that young bastard has his hand!"
They probably don't even know what's going on, he thought. Or if they know, they have sense enough not to do anything about it. Nice to see that some people are untouched by the madness that's sweeping the world ... The pilot looked down at his fuel gauges.
"They look harmless enough. We're down to thirty minutes' fuel. Time to return."
The chopper settled at the tail, and for a terrible moment Edwards thought it might be landing. Then it pivoted in midair and moved to the southwest. One of the soldiers riding in the back waved at them. Vidgis waved back. They stood there as it fiew off. Their hands came down, and her left arm held his tight against her. Edwards had not realized that Vigdis didn't wear a bra. He was afraid to move his hand, afraid to appear to make an advance. Why had she done that? To help fool the Russians--to reassure him, or herself? That it had in fact worked seemed unimportant. The Marines were still concealed. They stood there quite alone, and his left hand seemed to burn as his mind stumbled over what he ought to do.
Vigdis acted for him. His hand slid away as she turned to him and buried her head against his shoulder. Here I am holding the prettiest girl I ever met in one hand, Edwards thought, and a Goddamned fish in the other. That was easily solved. Edwards dropped the fish, wrapped both arms around her, and held on tight.
"Are you all right?"
She looked up at his face. "I think yes."
There was only one word for what he felt toward the girl in his arms. Edwards knew this wasn't the time, and wasn't the place, but the look and the word remained. He kissed her gently on the cheek. The smile that answered him counted more than all the passionate encounters of his life.
"Excuse me, folks," Sergeant Smith said from a few feet away.
"Yeah." Edwards disengaged himself. "Let's get moving before they decide to come back."
USS CHICAGO
Things