“No, sir. Airborne, sir.” Reynolds knew that when the colonel smiled like that you were totally screwed. Scouts, he thought, here I come.

“Sergeant Major Eady?”

“Alpha weapons.” While the discussion had gone on, the sergeant major had pulled out and consulted a tactical dispositions map. The sleet turning to rain pooled and dripped on the acetate cover, occasionally requiring a shake to clear the view. By evening it was sure to snow. The sergeant major decided he wanted to be back at the Tactical Operations Center by then; all his comfort gear was there.

“Where?” snapped the colonel, stalking over to his own seat.

“South to the next firebreak, which should be on the left about two hundred meters, around the bend, then about a hundred fifty, two hundred. Clearing on the right. If I remember correctly, there’s a lightning-struck pine at the edge of the clearing along the road.” The NCO had been driving these roads before the specialist was a gleam in his daddy’s eye.

“Reynolds,” growled the colonel, throwing himself into the seat of the open jeep and propping his foot on the mud-splashed shovel lashed to the side.

“Sir.”

“I assume you can run four hundred meters in your field gear.” The colonel assumed the same position as the sergeant major in the back, gloved hands thrust into armpits, body slightly crouched to reduce surface area. The position of an experienced and heartily pissed infantry officer preparing for a long wait in the cold rain and sleet.

“Airborne, sir!” The specialist snapped to attention, happy to have somewhere to go out of the glacial gaze of his commander.

“Go.”

The embarrassed spec-four took off like a gazelle. The icy red mud splashed for yards in every direction with each stride.

“Sergeant Major,” said the colonel, conversationally, as the figure disappeared around the first bend.