Into the Guns by William C. Dietz Page B

and a second cup of coffee, Mac went out to check in with what? Could it be called a platoon? Or was it a company now? Not that it mattered. The ritual began with a visit to the small building that housed the ready room. That’s where the pilots and their crew people met each morning.
    Mac thought of them as orphans, meaning people who had been at Vagabond when the poop hit the fan, or drifted in since, looking for a unit to belong to. Tim Peters and copilot/gunner Jan Omata were excellent examples. Their Apache AH-64 had been grounded due to mechanical problems when their platoon flew out on April 30. And were still there on May 1, when the meteors fell. So for the moment, at least, the warrant officers belonged to her.
    The sleet was cold and wet as it hit Mac’s face. She hurried past a couple of sheds to what everyone called “the Shack.” It was toasty inside thanks to the huge heater that had been “reallocated” from one of the hangars. The walls were covered with photos of helicopters, old and new, a detailed map of the training center, and a tidy bulletin board. The newest item on it was over a month old. Five people were seated around the Formica-covered table and all of them stood as Mac walked in. It was an honor generally reserved for high-ranking officers, but Mac was all they had. She said, “At ease,” and waved them back into their chairs.
    â€œGood morning, ma’am,” Peters said. “Have you got any news for us?”
    Peters was a lanky six-two and liked to wear his hair high and tight. He had piercing blue eyes, a firm jaw, and an easygoing personality. He also had a strong desire to fly rather than sit around playing soldier. “I’m sorry,” Mac replied. “Just the same old, same old. The people at JBLM were forced to fall back again. And we don’t have anything new from Fairchild.”
    The news produced groans of disappointment. “That sucks,”Omata said. Mac liked the pilot and felt sorry for her at the same time. Her family was in San Francisco . . . And, like so many people, Omata had no idea what had become of them.
    â€œYeah, it does,” Mac agreed. “But hang in there . . . Something will break soon.”
    â€œReally? You think so?” Grimes inquired. He was a mechanic and a member of the Apache’s ground crew.
    â€œYes, I do,” Mac lied. “In the meantime, I really appreciate the way you folks have pitched in. Speaking of which, I have to be in town at 0930. So Mr. Peters will be in charge.”
    â€œI plan to give everyone a raise, a strawberry ice-cream cone, and their own unicorn,” Peters announced.
    â€œI’m glad to hear it,” Mac replied. “I don’t need a unicorn, but some ice cream would taste good.”
    The sleet found her skin as Mac left the Shack and caused her to swear. Each Stryker was housed in its own storage building, all separated by a fire lane. Two trucks were on guard duty at any given time—and the rest could roll on five minutes’ notice. After checking in with the Stryker crews, Mac made her way to the tiny dispensary, where a navy doctor named Pete Hoskins and medic “Doc” Obbie were waiting.
    Hoskins and his wife had been in Yakima visiting her parents when the meteors struck. And, since he couldn’t reach his duty station in San Diego, Hoskins reported to the heliport. Obbie stood as Mac entered, but Hoskins outranked her and didn’t.
    Hoskins was a serious-looking man with graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the precise movements of a bird. His report was as predictable as the morning sleet. It seemed there had been a few minor injuries in the last twenty-four hours, two soldiers had colds, and 80 percent of the base’s personnel were clinically depressed. “Including
you
,” Hoskins said pointedly, “even if you won’t admit it.”
    â€œThanks,” Mac said. “I