“This reminds me of camping, when I was a kid, with my dad.”
Dorian wished the sappy jerk would shut up or pass out. He looked at the man’s wound again, at the signs of infection. He would definitely lose the leg… if he made it to morning. Something about that thought made Dorian respond. “My father wasn’t into… camping, per se.”
The helicopter pilot began to speak, but Dorian continued.
“He was in the military. He took a great deal of pride in that. And his interests in Immari International, of course, though when I was young it was more like a club he was in, a social commitment. It didn’t become a preoccupation until later. About the only thing we ever did together was attend military parades. At the first one, I knew what I wanted to be. Seeing the Kaiser’s men all lined up in rows, marching in rhythm, the beat of the music in my chest.”
“Amazing, sir. You knew even then that you wanted to be a soldier?”
Dorian had told his father that night. I want to march at the front, Papa. Please buy me a trumpet. I will be the best trumpet player in all the Kaiser’s army. Dorian’s rebirth in the tubes had removed the scars from his legs and lower back, but he could still remember the beating his father had given him. This is what the world does to trumpet players, Dieter.
“Yes. I knew it even then. A soldier…”
But when had he known it, become what he was? That day in 1986 when he had emerged from the tube. He was different. He was Ares. It was true. It was so clear now. But— “Wait. Sir, did you say the Kaiser’s army?”
“I did. It’s… a long story. Now button up and get some rest. That’s an order too.”
Dorian had stayed up half the night and only slept a few hours, but he felt incredibly refreshed when he awoke. The first rays of sunlight were emerging in the east, and here and there the forest was coming to life.
Dorian had also awoken with an idea. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He needed to act fast for it to have any chance at success.
He crept over to the pilot. His breathing was shallow. The wound continued to seep blood onto the forest floor, spreading a black and crimson pool around him. He twitched periodically.
Dorian paced away from him and sat on a rock for a long while, listening, trying to get a direction. When he was sure, he checked his gun and set off.
From the bushes, Dorian could see two of the Berber tribesmen. One slept on the ground; the other, likely an officer, in a tent. He was pretty sure there were only two; only two horses were tied to a tree nearby.
At the smoldering fire lay a large machete. Dorian would use it. Gunfire would draw attention, and there was no need for it. Two sleeping Berber tribesmen would be no problem.
Dorian kicked the horse again. It glided through the forest. At the camp, he would make the call first, moving up the extraction time. How fast could he and the pilot get there on the horses? A better question: how long did the man have? Dorian wished he knew. That would be the deadline. The horses would save the pilot’s life. He kicked the horse again and it responded. He pulled the other behind him by the reins and it matched their pace. Amazing animals.
At the camp, Dorian slowed and dismounted before the horses stopped.
“Hey! Get up.”
Dorian made for the satellite phone.
There was no answer from the pilot.
Dorian stopped. No. He turned. He knew what he saw, yet he ran to his comrade. He held two fingers to his neck. Dorian felt the cold skin long before he knew there was no pulse, but he held his fingers there for a second, staring at the closed eyes.
Dorian stood. Rage pulsed through him. He almost kicked the man’s body. He wanted to fall to his knees and punch him in the face—for dying, for stringing him along, for… everything. He stood again and the horses erupted, backing away from him. One neighed and jumped. Stupid, smelly beasts. He turned to strike one of them, but they were out of reach. It didn’t matter. He would ride one to death, then mount the other and follow suit.
He raced to the sat phone.
“Fleet Ops.”
“Give me Captain Williams.”
“Identify yourself.”
“Who the fuck do you think this is?! How many fucking wrong number calls do you get these days? Put Williams on or I will split you down the middle when I get out of this hellhole!”
“St-stand by, s-sir.”
Two seconds passed.
“Williams—”
“Change of schedule. I will be at the LZ in less than an hour.”
“We can be there—”
“In less than an hour! One hour or less. They can develop photos that fast, you sure as hell better get your ass down here. If I have to make my own way back to the fleet, your lifespan plummets, Captain.”
Dorian heard the captain screaming to scramble helicopters.
“We’ll… be there, sir.”
“The girl—”
“We’re taking good care of her—”
“Get rid of her.”
“You want—”
“I don’t care where she goes, she just better be gone when I get back.”