Soldiers

Chapter 54

The Pecan Orchard

Pak stood in his somewhat crowded briefing room, speaking. In a dual role: as Liberation Corps commander, and chief of airborne planning. His listeners were his general staff; several officers of B Company, 2nd Regiment; and the leaders of three platoons belonging to other companies. The wall screen showed a map, and Pak held a pointer in his hand, moving an arrow on the screen.

"The buoys gave us several candidate targets," he was saying. "The one I've chosen is a harvest camp, in a cultivated lacustrine plain fifty-six miles east-southeast of here. The crop resembles grain, and since most of their harvest machinery was destroyed, they have a large crew harvesting with hand tools. It's one of a number of such operations scattered around the colony."

The window changed from a map to a live view from 360 miles up, greatly enlarged. It showed a large field centered on an orchard. Lines of minute figures could be discerned, advancing slowly. The arrow pointed, and magnification jumped, showing a segment of one line, with Wyzhnyny swinging harvest implements. In front of them, the crop stood higher than their withers. Behind them lay swaths of cut grain, with another line of Wyzhnyny wielding what had to be large, long-tined rakes. "A count shows two hundred twenty workers, almost surely soldiers," Pak said.

Again the picture changed. Now the orchard occupied most of the screen. "Notice the three openings where trees have been removed. The object in the center opening is a rather small floater, parked, and almost certainly serves as the command center. The other two hold what seem to be mess tents." Again the magnification jumped, and the arrow pointed. "If you look carefully, you can discern what appear to be smaller tents beneath the trees, probably squad tents and latrines."

The focus and magnification changed. Around the orchard was a band of stubble field where the grain had been cut. The arrow pointed again, and again. "These are two flakwagons, two hundred feet from the orchard, one at each of two diagonally opposite corners. They can target any air attack-or ground attack-from any side. But you will notice"-the focus moved to one of the flakwagons and enlarged it-"that they are not presently manned. Presumably their crews have duties within the orchard, perhaps in the kitchen-somewhere from which they can run to their guns quickly.

"Presumably the work crew has weapons, but they do not carry them in the field. Probably they're kept in their tents. But you've seen Wyzhnyny run. Even in New Jerusalem's gravity, they can be armed and fighting within a minute or so.

"They muster each morning at 0911 hours to begin cutting." He gestured at his science officer. "Major Pelletier suggests the lateness is to let the sun dry the dew off the grain before they start cutting it. At 1308 they take a fifty-minute meal break, then return to the field and work until 1722. After another meal, most of them work until 2107."

Pak looked his people over. "That's a long day, and the work is clearly hard labor. They should sleep heavily."

He paused. "You're all aware that there are three different Wyzhnyny physical types, one larger, with blue fur, another reddish-brown and not so large, and a smaller, dun-colored type." The blues were few, and apparently high-ranking, while the reds seemed to be elite troops. Though experience showed reds in formations of the duns, perhaps as officers.

He went on. "Major Naguib says he hasn't spotted any blues with the harvest crews, but he can distinguish both reds and duns down there. They're on separate work crews. There are somewhat fewer reds, and they don't work after supper. It's been asked why elite troops would be assigned to a harvest crew. They don't appear to be a punishment detail; their hours are shorter, and their work supervisors go unarmed. They may simply be undergoing reconditioning, after wounds or other injuries, or illness.

"I told War House about this last night, and this morning they told me they want six prisoners of each type. That may complicate collection, but there are plenty of both kinds available, so it shouldn't be a serious problem."

Actually Pak didn't like it; his audience read it in his face. The mission didn't need added complications. "Any questions so far?" he asked. "Comments? All right, let's look at the action plan…"

Jerrie troops were excellent squatters, as Jerrie farmers had been, when there were Jerrie farmers. Their legs were thick and strong, the knees and muscles limber and enduring. And at Forest Base there were no benches, so 2nd Platoon squatted a lot. Squatted during occasional field lectures and while yakking on breaks. Just now they squatted for a talk from their ensign.

With replacements drawn from other companies, 2nd Platoon was back at full strength, the only full-strength platoon in B Company. Nearly half of them were unfamiliar to Esau Wesley, who stood, not squatted, in front to one side, facing them. His hands were no longer bandaged. The new skin on his palms was bright pink.

"You may wonder why 2nd Platoon has been brought to full strength," said now-Ensign Hawkins, "when the rest of B Company is so shorthanded. And you new men may wonder why you were pulled out of your old companies. Last evening, Division gave us their reasons, to share with you.

"But first I want to introduce someone to the new people." He gestured at Esau. "Staff Sergeant Esau Wesley has replaced me as your platoon sergeant."

Esau colored visibly. It occurred to him he didn't look like a platoon sergeant. B Company's senior noncoms were of every human pigmentation, but all of them, the survivors and the dead-were or had been tall. At least taller than his own five-eight. He nodded acknowledgement of the introduction, telling himself the Sikhs had chosen him for the job. That should be enough for anyone. And it was a job he'd wanted from the beginning, though he hadn't envisioned someone dying to make it available.

"Esau's here to meet you, and to hear what I'm about to say," Hawkins went on. "Then he's going back to rehab. He'll be with us for good in two or three days. For you newcomers, Sergeant Esau got his job the hard way. He excelled throughout training, was my senior squad leader… and… at the tank park he took out the southwest flak tower single-handed. With covering fire from Corporal Jael Wesley and an unidentified trooper from another platoon. He climbed a rope ninety feet under fire, threw a phosphorous grenade in the firing port to suppress defense, and then, to make sure the guns would be out of service when our floaters arrived, he opened the turret door and threw in a thirty-pound satchel charge he'd carried up the rope on his back. Then he came back down." Hawkins grinned. "Fast, because he was being shot at. Left the skin from his palms and fingers on the rope, when he gripped it to keep from splattering on the concrete ground slab. It's hard to imagine anyone tough enough to do that on purpose. Great job, Sergeant."

Hawkins paused. He'd learned delivery by watching and listening to Captain Mulvaney, unconsciously adding a dash of theatrics. "Now," he said, "down to business. 2nd Platoon has a new mission; that's why it was brought to full strength. You'll get a complete briefing on it after lunch, from the division briefing officer. I'm just giving you an introduction."

He looked his troops over. "Back at Stenders, airborne platoons were trained for a special mission, one we've had in the back of our minds ever since. General Pak has chosen 2nd Platoon, B Company to lead a company-strength jump force to take Wyzhnyny prisoners. The other platoons will be from C, D, and E Companies."

Hawkins didn't tell them the general's staff had had misgivings. B Company, it was pointed out, was by far the most shot-up in the division, and if brought to strength, 2nd Platoon would be half replacements. It would "lack unit cohesion." But he did tell them the general's reasons. It was the only airborne-qualified platoon with experience in raiding deep inside Wyz Country. The only platoon with combat experience in the desperate, helter-skelter situations that historically too often developed in airborne operations. Murphy's Law in action. Every replacement assigned to Hawkins' platoon was airborne qualified, while its veterans had distinguished themselves in the chaos, and extreme and immediate danger, of the Tank Park Raid.

"It's not that other platoons couldn't lead," Hawkins went on. "They could. But the entire force can feel more confident because of B Company's performance at the tank park.

"And there's a third reason. The general wants B Company's CO, Captain Zenawi, to command the raid, even though he's the newest company commander in the division.

"So you see the confidence the general has in him and in us."

B Company's veterans already knew, via the rumor line, how Zenawi, as Bremer's subordinate, had prevented B Company's extermination. And been awarded captain's bars to go with his new mission. Captain Mulvaney would never be replaced in their minds and hearts, but the troops liked what they knew of Zenawi, and his platoon swore by him.

"And that's it for now," Hawkins finished. "You'll learn the rest of it later, from Division's briefing officer."

He converted then from Hawkins the seasoned older brother, to Hawkins their commanding officer. "2nd Platoon!" he barked, "fall in!"

2nd Platoon got to its feet and formed ranks. There was no opportunity now to talk about it, but the excitement they felt as they trotted to the log yard had a definite mixture of nervous tension.

The general had had an additional reason for deciding on Zenawi as mission commander. He'd been impressed by reports, but before deciding, had called him in and asked how he'd prepare his diverse platoons, if he was in command. Zenawi's off-the-cuff reply had clinched the job.

Their real briefing came after lunch, from Major Naguib, Division's intelligence chief who often doubled as briefing officer. He showed them shots of the orchard. One of the Jerries commented that it looked like a "pecan" orchard, referring to a native species of nut trees. Afterward, all four platoons moved their gear from their own company areas to a new, temporary area with its own mess tent. For the two weeks of mission training, they'd live together, eat together, and train together. And play flag together in mixed teams.

For six days they trained on sand tables-squares laid out on the ground and covered with sand. Each platoon had its own table, each with a simulated orchard. Woody fruit stalks, from what the Jerries called "cedars," served as trees. Among the trees, numerous plastic cutouts simulated squad tents and latrines. Two larger cutouts were mess tents. In the center of the orchard was a small plastic box representing the command center, and at a little distance, off two diagonal corners, smaller boxes simulated flakwagons. Wooden pegs represented Jerrie troopers; each trooper was given his own peg, and wrote his service number on it. Everyone and every squad drilled their own roles.

Each platoon was labeled with its company designation: B, C, D or E.

When they'd drilled the mission to the satisfaction of their platoon leaders and squad leaders, Captain Zenawi threw in complications: troopers not reaching the drop zone, or the premature discovery of one squad or another. Or Esau being unable to fly the unfamiliar Wyzhnyny floater.

On the very first day, Esau had asked three very basic questions: "How will we know how to fly their floater, and drive their flakwagons, and fire their flak guns?"

Grinning, Zenawi explained. "Indi ordnance specialists flew to the howitzer cemetery almost before the hulls cooled. With salvage vehicles, and orders to bring in a howitzer and a flakwagon in the best shape they could find. They brought in three flakwagons, and cannibalized them to cobble together one that works. So you'll all get a chance to start it, and drive it a bit." The faces he looked at were very interested. "They also brought in two power drums that were only partly expended, so those who need to will get to fire a trasher."

Back on Luneburger's they'd been quickied on driving light AG ground vehicles, and had loved it. Now the idea of driving a flakwagon, perhaps even firing its heavy weapons, really brightened their eyes. Most of them, he reminded himself, were in their late teens and early twenties. "As for the floater," he went on, "Sergeant Esau, you'll have to settle for learning to fly one of ours, you and your squad. An instructor will talk to you about some of the possible control differences you may encounter in a Wyzhnyny machine. Then it will be up to you to fly it if you can."

For despite his promotion to platoon sergeant, in this raid Esau would wear another hat. He was regarded as the best stealth man in B Company, so he'd been assigned the most critical single job on the raid: to steal the Wyzhnyny command center.

And as 4th Squad's sergeant-they had a 4th Squad again-Jael had one of the next two most critical jobs.

The next week they went over it all again, this time on a full-scale mock-up, with themselves in the action roles. Themselves and F Company, which played the Wyzhnyny much more effectively than calves had. In the struggles, lips were inevitably split, eyes blackened, noses bloodied. But when wrists and ankles had been securely taped, the captives were dragged from the orchard no more roughly than necessary, to be loaded onto genuine cargo floaters. The injuries were minor, and gave the medics something real to do. They also "treated," and transferred to medivacs, jumpers designated as casualties by umpires from Division. After the second day they ran their drills at night, for realism, and slept late in the morning.

When each drill was over, the casualties were declared whole and sound again, the enemy ordained human, and they all attended a critique of the exercise by the Division referee and Captain Zenawi.

The mock-up had been prepared in advance by a company of Burger engineers, on a prairie area 380 miles from base. To serve as the orchard, they'd planted rows of stout, ten-foot posts at appropriate intervals. Among the posts they pitched actual squad tents in which the troops would live that week, along with two mess tents and canopied latrine pits. They also installed the two inoperable, partly stripped Wyzhnyny flakwagons.

By the end of the second week, everyone had familiarized themselves with the operational third flakwagon, and dry-fired its light, four-barrelled trasher. Each member of 4th Squad had manuevered it around and live-fired its trasher.

Esau and his team had each flown a floater, with a certified pilot beside him. And, on each subsequent day a new floater was brought, each with the control system differently rigged, for them to figure out if they could. Only once did the Indi floater tech have to solve a problem for them.

And every raider became proficient with the short bola-a tough, slender, thirty-nine-inch cord with weights on both ends. Properly thrown, they tangled the legs of rustled Wyzhnyny livestock. Coupled with a quick, aggressive, three-man follow-up, and tough plastic tape, the bola would hopefully serve in lieu of stunners.

On the last night at the prairie bivouac, Esau and Jael walked out of camp beneath a richness of stars that both beggared and lifted the soul. The Candle had set, and the Lamp wouldn't rise till near dawn. Esau had carried a poncho and an insect repellent field generator, and they'd gone to a cedar grove, to make love in the privacy of its deeper darkness.

Afterward they walked slowly back to camp, holding hands.

"Do you recall," Esau said, "what I asked you after the Tank Park Raid?"

She didn't answer at once. Not as if she didn't remember, but as if she was thinking about it. "I remember," she murmured at last.

"What do you think?"

Again her answer lagged, then finally she told him. "I'm still against it, for me. But if you want to, I won't complain or say you shouldn't, because in most ways, to sign up is a good thing."

His only reply was a nod, and after a moment she spoke again. "I read something when I was a child, in Elder Hofer's Contemplations on the Testaments. Even then it struck me as right, and I've reread it since. `Beware what you set your mind on, lest you thereby create it in the world of phenomena.' He was writing about wishing ill on people you don't like, and the debt it might create for you in the eyes of God. But it seemed to me the meaning went beyond that.

"And I'm afraid if I sign a bot agreement, I might bring harm on myself, and maybe those around me, in order to fulfill it."

Esau frowned. He didn't find it convincing, but again said nothing. After a minute they made out the darkness of tents beneath the stars. "But if you want to," Jael repeated softly, "I won't say you shouldn't. Because… because I may be worrying about nothing."

He turned, gripped her shoulders. "I'll let be," he said, "for now at least. And if I change my mind, I'll tell you before I sign."

"Thank you, Esau," she said, and reaching up, pulled his face down and kissed him. "You're a good husband, a good person, and I love you dearly."

Two nights later, at 2350 hours, the Candle was well down, and high thin clouds screened the stars. Esau was planing in from the north, navigating by his HUDs. Now, by night vision, he could see the orchard itself.

What he didn't see were the sparks and vivid flashes far above.

As he drew nearer, he watched for the edge of the uncut grain. It wouldn't do to overshoot it. His night vision showed the standing crop darker than the stubble field. Ensign Hawkins had explained it-something about dew and "evaporative cooling"-but it hadn't meant anything to Esau. He could also make out the broad path a crew had trod through the stubble, and steered so he'd land near it, but in the uncut crop. He could see two others who'd landed ahead of him. They were stuffing gear.

His encased blaster and stuffbag dangled on a line below his feet. The ground leaped upward, the 1.42 gees of gravity jarring him even as he rolled. Then he knelt and looked around. He was, he decided, about three hundred yards from the orchard. Looking back he saw two more jumpers incoming. Their chutes and thermal coveralls were black, but by night vision the coveralls shone faintly golden, barely perceptible.

After pulling in his blaster, stuffbag and chute, he shucked out of his coverall, removed his musette bag and gear, and stuffed chute and blaster case into the stuffbag. It took seconds. By then two more troopers were on the ground. Another was coming in fast, and still another was in sight.

He called up a time readout; keeping on schedule was more important than having the full team. "Bag your gear," he murmured into his helmet mike, "and be ready to move. And keep low." The ripe grain was pale. Their black night-fatigues would be conspicuous against it. Dismissing the no-show from his mind, he murmured, "I'm moving out. Keep twenty-yard intervals crossing the stubble." After two weeks of rehearsal they knew what to do, but reminders were standard.

He straightened just enough to locate the path through the stubble field again, then moved through the crop on all fours. Thirty yards brought him to the stubble's edge, where he paused, prone. The footpath didn't reach the uncut crop. He had twenty yards to go through pale stubble eight to ten inches high. There was no way to avoid it. Leaving his bulky stuffbag just within the crop, he began creeping, pulling with his elbows, pushing with his feet, blaster cradled on his forearms. Then he reached the footpath, where Wyzhnyny feet had scuffed and trod the stubble down, baring dark earth.

Once more he paused, scanning for a sentry along the orchard's edge, a sentry on four legs, with a muscular torso rising from the shoulders like a short-furred neck with arms. When he'd finished his scan, his night vision had found just one. The Wyzhnyny stood unmoving, perhaps forty yards left of where the path led.

The sonofabitch could be looking at me right now, Esau thought. If I was him, I'd let me crawl closer, wait till I was almost there. Meanwhile, all he could do was keep crawling and watching, and if the Wyz raised his blaster, pot him first.

That was the first serious complication the captain had thrown into the drills: premature firing. If it happened, he'd have to change his team mission, and speed things up as much as possible. Until then, slow and easy were the key words.

Before he reached the orchard, he could see the sentry's head hanging. The sonofabitch was dozing on his feet! That was bound to be a bigger problem with four-legged sentries than with two.

Within the orchard's edge, Esau rose, moved ten yards to his right, then knelt waiting by a tree while Morris and Avery crossed, and spaced themselves. Only then did Esau start slowly through the orchard, threading his way among tents, avoiding tent ropes. He heard no sound, not even a Wyzhnyny snore.

The control center, if that's what it actually was, sat in the middle of the orchard. Timbers had been set as a foundation, keeping the chassis twenty inches or so above the ground. No tents stood within ten yards. Its door was closed, but light shone weakly through the windscreen. There was no sentry. When Morris and Avery had reached the small opening and stopped, Esau lowered himself and crept slowly to the floater, belly to the ground. The floater was light-enough green, he didn't want his two-legged form outlined against it. When he reached the door, he looked around, then rose to one knee, slung his blaster, drew his stunner, and tried the external latch. It seemed to work like those on Terran floaters. Within the orchard there was no discernible breeze. Very slowly, very carefully, he opened the door half an inch. Dull light emerged. Quickly he stood, pulled it wide and stepped in.

The Wyzhnyny charge of quarters had heard something. His torso turned, their eyes met, and Esau pressed the firing stud. The stunner's almost inaudible condenser hummed, the upright torso folded slowly, and the seated body fell sideways, toppling the low, padded chair.

Esau closed the door, and after a moment's fumbling, locked it. Less than ten seconds had elapsed since he'd entered. Judging from marine experience on Tagus, the stunned CQ would never waken. There'd been no alarm, and the control screen was serenely featureless. So far, so good, he thought. Let's just hope no Wyzhnyny radios in now.

Using his helmet mike, he reported his progress on the command frequency. The others knew what to do next.

Jael's squad had landed east of the orchard. Its mission was to capture and hold the flakwagon that lay off the southeast corner, and with it, defend the raid from outside air or ground interference. Within four minutes of landing, she and her squad lay in the edge of the uncut crop, fifteen yards from the flakwagon. She could see no Wyzhnyny on or inside the machine, but nonetheless they waited. They were not to move until either Esau had captured the control center, or there was shooting, or the tiny numerals of her HUD clock read 0030 hours-whichever came first.

They would not leave their stuffbags in the crop. The flakwagon controls were too far from the seat, even for a long-legged Sikh, let alone one of her people. So stuffbags would be used for seats.

She wasn't thinking about that, though. She was scanning the east edge of the orchard, and what she could see of the south edge. She'd found the eastside sentry, even laid her blaster sight on him. Southside was someone else's responsibility.

A voice in her helmet startled her. Esau's. "Raider command, I've taken the Wyz command center. Stunned the CQ. He's either dead or dying, and I've locked the door. So far as I know, no one knows we're here. Over."

"Acknowledged, Esau. Teams proceed with the mission."

Jael looked around. She couldn't see any of her squad, but they'd all checked in. She crept across the intervening stubble to the flakwagon, Steven Tyler to her right, mirroring her move. Standing slowly, she peered into the cab, and saw only Tyler peering in on the other side. Her squad, she knew, was crouching in the standing grain, blasters ready. Stepping to the weapon platform, she pulled herself up to peer into the back. No one there, either. Smoothly she bellied over the armored side. A moment later, Tyler joined her. This flakwagon was a lighter-weight version of the one they'd practiced on. The armored sides were high enough to protect a Wyzhnyny if he kept his head down, and the four-barreled heavy slammer had a gunner's shield.

She heard the cab doors open, a soft sound-Ambler and Hoke, as drilled. So far, so good. She felt calm as wash water. Stepping onto the gunner's platform, she activated the firing system. On the sighting screen, tiny lights showed traversing, elevation, and the power drum all engaged. The hum was louder than she'd expected, but according to the buoys, the wagon was 214 feet from the orchard. The gun swiveled, quick but smooth.

A Wyzhnyny voice called, jerking her attention from the sighting screen. The eastside sentry was trotting toward her. Carefully she drew her stunner and knelt low, waiting. "Don't fire," she murmured into her mike. She wanted to avoid noise if possible. Stun him as soon as his head appears, she told herself, and he'll never trigger his blaster.

In her helmet, Jael heard one of C Company's people report the Wyzhnyny's approach, body low, torso and head forward instead of upright. She expected its head to rise slowly. Instead it reared, blaster raised and ready. As she thumbed her stunner, she felt a monstrous pain in her belly, and lost consciousness.

In the control center, the first blaster fire was followed almost at once by a fusillade, some of it sounding like a flakwagon. Esau swore-something almost unthinkable before he'd left home. He'd pretty much figured out the controls while he'd waited. Now he tried powering up, hoping nothing heavy hit the floater, especially the windscreen in front of him. Windscreens were supposed to be blast resistant, but he didn't trust something he could see through.

The gravdrive growled softly, and a HUD came to life on the windscreen-concentric hair-thin rings of blue light with a pale yellow spot in the center. Quickly the spot turned blue. The joystick knob was obviously made to turn on the shaft, so he turned it. A new HUD appeared, and the floater rose. In seconds he was above the trees.

"Raider command," he said, "raider command! This is Esau! She flies! I'm above the trees now! Don't shoot me down!"

He turned the knob further, swiveled the stick and shoved it forward, sending the floater toward where Captain Zenawi's command post should be. In this contingency, his next job was to stand by as courier, bus driver, or whatever.

Almost at once, Steven Tyler had shouted, "Medic!" Then he saw the blood welling from Jael's lower abdomen. "God help us, it's Jael! And it's BAD!" Then the awakening blaster fire reminded him, and he mounted the gunner's seat, seeking targets.

Because the flakwagon teams would be outside the main action, an Indi medic had parachuted with each of them. At Tyler's cry, 4th Squad's medic had dashed to the flakwagon and clambered over the side. Now he crouched beside Jael. "Gentle Jesus!" he muttered. Blood flowed across the deck, spreading. In four seconds, with the fastest "scissors" on New Jerusalem, he'd cut away the ripped tatters of uniform; in two more seconds held a canister from which he sprayed a pressurized liquid into her abdomen, his other hand shifting her ruined intestines for better coverage.

In military jargon, the fluid was simply X-1. It would close the torn blood vessels within seconds, ending hemorrhage. After which surgical repair would be impossible in the division's field hospital. But without it…

Within a minute or so she'd be clinically dead, and soon afterward beyond CNS salvage. He checked a dog tag. Bot agreements were common these days, but her dog tag didn't show one. "Tyler," he asked, "do you know if she's said anything about a bot agreement?"

"I don't know of any."

The medic switched his comm to the platoon frequency. "Ensign Hawkins, this is Med Tech-1 Shinassi. I have a potential bot case here, Jael Wesley, but her tags don't show a bot agreement. Has she said anything orally? Over."

Esau stared at the radio, shocked. He broke in at once. "Shinassi, this is Esau. Just before we loaded out, she said she'd decided to do it. Shall I pick her up? Over."

He was shaking all over.

"Thanks, Esau, but she'll keep. I've given her X-1; now I'll give her Stasis 1. Med Tech Amud Shinassi out."

In time! In time! Esau stopped shaking, but now a different specter hung over him. What would Jael say when she awoke?

Though intense, the fighting in and about the orchard was brief and one-sided. The raiders were superbly prepared, attained total surprise, faced non-combat formations, removed the enemy's sole means of calling for help, and captured their heavy weapons before the Wyzhnyny even knew they were there. Almost a textbook mission. When Wyzhnyny APFs were sent, it was too late, and en route were attacked by strong Indi air units.

The bolas worked as hoped. In the confusion on the ground, the Jerries hadn't even tried to distinguish the larger, reddish-brown Wyzhnyny-"the reds"-from the duns. They simply taped and loaded all they could before the order was given to pull out. And left with four more than War House had ordered-six reds and ten duns, as it turned out.

Early in the fighting, numerous duns fled the orchard, a major surprise. The flakwagons took a heavy toll on them. Except for a few who reached the standing crop and hid, all who weren't captured were killed.

By comparison, Jerrie casualties were moderate: seven died on the ground, and five more on the medivac or in the hospital. Only eight wounded survived, five of them bot cases. The high ratio of killed to wounded was normal for energy weapons, and in this fight, projectile weapons were not involved.

Two Jerries were injured when struck on the head by bolas being twirled or thrown by others.

Captain Zenawi made sure that all the stuffbags were evacuated with the troops. Hopefully the Wyzhnyny would never know how this incursion was made.