Will glanced over at Murkowski and Hertz, crowded together in their own foxhole. Glanced back at Finn, who returned his look with a feverish one of his own. Four of them. Just four. They had no idea how many Chinese there might be on the other side of the hill.
Sweat beaded at Will’s temples and in his hair, slid down the sides of his face and trickled down into his collar. He felt it pool at his tailbone and resisted the urge to shimmy away from the sensation. Finn’s breath seemed a physical, humid thing inside their foxhole, swelling and swelling against the dirt until Will felt the pressure of it inside his head. Scraggly trees shaded them, and gave them visual cover. Just ahead of them, the flat plateau of the hill, rock-studded and deeply rutted from rainfall, shimmered with heat mirages. Naked and exposed.
It was an hour before they heard movement. The soft clank and rustle of gear being toted. And then the crunch of dry grass and rocks under feet.
The Chinese came into view, skin shiny with sweat, Russian carbines propped on shoulders or held loosely in unworried hands. Their heads were down, watching their steps. The Marines were gone; there was no reason to take any precautions.
They didn’t know four Marines lay in wait until they were nearly upon them.
Quick, clean kills, all fifteen of them.
That night, Will paused in the act of opening his meat and beans and glanced over at Finn. His best friend sat on his air mattress with his legs crossed, his head bowed. One hand fingered the can opener around his neck with the mindless reverence one would use to stroke a crucifix. In the other hand he held the small photo of Leena, its edges now papery, yellow, and folded. His lips moved, but Will couldn’t read them.
