SSI OFFICES
“Look at this,” Breezy exclaimed. He straightened the pages from a week-old London Gazette that Derringer had left in the lounge.
“What?” Bosco was barely interested in the news; he was engrossed in his sci-fi thriller.
“Well, it says here that an Aussie just got the Victoria Cross. First time in about forty years.” Breezy paused for effect. “In Chad.”
Bosco turned from voluptuous Carmogian females wielding phased-array plasma weapons in the Second Virgo Galaxy War. “You mean, the guys we’re replacing?”
“Guess so.” Breezy read aloud. “‘The queen has been graciously pleased on the advice of her Australian ministers to approve the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to the undermentioned:
“‘Warrant Officer Class Two Derrick Jasper Martin, the 138th Signals Squadron.
“‘Warrant Officer Martin carried out an act of great heroism by which he saved the life of a comrade. The act was in direct face of hostile forces, under intense fire, at great personal risk leading to his death. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.
“‘While engaged in peacekeeping operations near Massenya, Chad, on fourth September, Martin’s vehicle was destroyed by hostile fire that killed two crew members. Nevertheless, Martin pulled his badly wounded driver from the burning vehicle and, exhibiting selfless courage, carried him to temporary safety while employing his personal weapon to suppress close-range fire from local gunmen. Upon reaching temporary shelter in a nearby building, Martin defended his comrade with the greatest determination, accounting for a large number of hostile rioters. Without succor from security forces, with whom he could not communicate, Martin passed his driver to friendly civilians and continued covering their withdrawal until his ammunition was exhausted. When last seen he was retrieving an enemy weapon to continue his extraordinarily gallant fight against overwhelming odds.’”
When Breezy finished reading, Bosco made no comment, flippant or otherwise. It was unusual for the mountaineering ex-Ranger, SSI’s rappelling expert. His friend asked, “What do you think, man?”
Jason Boscombe seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the wall. Finally he turned to the onetime paratrooper and said, “I think that the Silver Star they pinned on me in Iraq doesn’t amount to that dude’s shoelaces. That’s what I think.”
Neither operator had ever wanted to dissect their stock in trade: courage under lethal stress. It was not what door-kickers talked about, certainly not as much as guns and gear or babes and baseball.
Breezy looked over his shoulder. Nobody was within earshot so he ventured an opinion. “Hell, dude, you’d do the same as that Aussie. So would any of the guys.”
Bosco leveled his gaze at his partner. “Tell me somethin’, Breeze. What’s the most you were ever scared?”
Breyzinski was tempted to toss off a reply about Charlotte Bernstein’s parents returning unexpectedly early one evening, but he checked himself. Bosco really wants to talk. He thought for a moment. “Oh, I dunno, man. There’s been several, you know?” He catalogued the first few that came to mind. “Prob’ly on my fourth qualifying jump at Bragg. I got a streamer and had to cut away from the main. I popped my reserve just in time. Swung twice and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.” He grinned self-consciously. “Wasn’t pretty.”
“But you did what you had to do,” Bosco prompted.
“Well, sure, dude! I mean, it’s not like I had a choice.” He raised both hands palms up, as if measuring two weights. “Live. Die. Live. Die.” He laughed nervously this time. “Some choice!”
Breezy straightened in his chair, facing Bosco. “Well, that’s what I’m saying, man. You, me, the other guys. We’re here because we reacted like we were trained. It’s like Uncle Sugar programmed the last setting into our brain housing unit, and when the computer was about to crash, we defaulted to our survival program. Right?”
Bosco bit his lip in concentration. He nodded. “Affirm. That’s right. But what’s your point?”
“My point is, man, that what we’re talking about was this much time.” He held up a thumb and forefinger, not quite touching. “We really didn’t have time to think, whether it was a bad chute or a skid on an icy road or a gomer swinging his AK on you. We just reacted. But that WO2, he had time to think about it. I mean, he had this much time.” The thumb extended two inches from the trigger finger. “He could think about what he was going to do before he had to do it.”
“I see what you mean,” Bosco said. “But I still don’t think it makes a lot of difference. Like I said, dude. You or me or anybody we know—we’d all have done what that Aussie guy did. I mean, can you imagine yourself walking away from a bud in deep serious?” He shook his head emphatically. “No way, man. Just no way.”
“So you’d rather die than look bad. That what you’re saying?”
“No, damn it, that’s not what I’m saying. I’d just stick with a friend and try to help him out, you know?”
Breezy pushed the point. “Even if you know you’d die.”
Bosco had heard enough. “Damn it, Breeze, what’s got into you?”
Brezyinski crumpled the newspaper and set it aside. “I dunno. All of a sudden I just got a bad feeling about this Chad thing.” He stood up and stretched. “You wanna get a burger or something for dinner?”
Bosco felt a tiny shiver between his shoulder blades. “After your cheerful conversation, I think I want some brewskis.”
“Well, okay. C’mon to my place. We’ll make some poppa-charlie and pop some lids.”
“Sounds like a date, dude.” Bosco was always up for popcorn. None of that diet variety; the more salt and butter the better.
“Sure, dinner and a movie.” Breezy felt better at the light banter.
Bosco perked up. “What’s the movie?”
“Black Hawk Down.”
“Oh, good,” Bosco replied. “I like happy endings.”