"Such a high cost, and nobody would ever

know that would care. Worse, the price that

Alfenwehr exacted from us would be paid

over our lifetimes."

2/19th Special Weapons Group

Restricted Area, Alfenwehr West Germany

Late Winter- January, 1986

Day 15 of Repairs

Day 7 of the Second Incident

Afternoon, 1400 Zulu

Bomber was standing next to me, both of us carrying M-16's we'd pulled out of the armory of the War Fighter Tunnels, dressed in uniforms pulled from stocks. We looked good, but we were both exhausted, chewing on Vicoden like candy, and still in pain. My pinky was taped to my ring finger, Nancy was pretty sure they were going to have to pin the bone, making it so both palms had metal in them.

Melkin and Lancer were opening the door. Lancer had insisted on being part of the door team, quoting the "most expendable" rule that guided our lives. He made constant jokes about being blind, but twice I'd walked into the bathroom and found him sitting in a stall crying softly.

One of the times Dobbs had been sitting with him, holding his hand.

I'd kept silent about that.

Dobbs was behind us, an eyepatch from the medical clinic over the empty socket, her face speckled with scabs. Her eye had gotten infected and Nancy had just removed it rather than risk the infection getting into her brain or nasal cavity. I'd seen Dobbs chest too, it was the same way, along with her left shoulder. Nancy had put in a lot of stitches, and told me privately that Dobbs had won the shrapnel game, with 128 separate holes. Bomber had come in second, his legs torn up with 78 little holes in them. Stokes was third, most of it in that big ass of hers. Artaine had beaten everyone at stitches or staples, clocking in at almost 200 of them. Dobbs had come in a close second with 145. None of the rest of us were even close.

Artain had taken what he called "the most painful shit of his life" yesterday, and I'd stood over Nagle while she'd used a metal rod to stir through it, looking at. I have no clear what she was looking for, since it was shit, but hey, she knew shit I didn't. His color was good, he could wiggle his fingers and toes, his drainage tubes were clear of infection, his breathing was good, his heartrate and pulse strong. He was doped up on morphine all the time, but he was in good spirits

I still had a chest tube in, the LT still had a drainage tube in his skull and was often light sensitive or suffered from migraines. But he refused to rest during them, working even while his hands shook.

Twice Nagle sedated him, four times he'd suffered seizures, and when he slept he often mumbled about Vietnam, and often became dazed and returned to Vietnam, mumbling to himself or outright talking to people who weren't there or that he was mistaking us for.

He was dying in front of us.

And there wasn't a goddamn thing we could do about it.

Nagle had spent all her time sleeping, reading a manual, or following the manuals instructions working on us. Lanks and Stokes had gotten a lot of practice too, mainly working on Nagle. They'd had to put a chest tube in her at one point, which apparently went in differently on a woman. Where me and Bomber both had them a few inches above and to the side of our nipples, hers was on her side. She had to sleep sitting up, pneumonia having set in. She told me that if a female had large breasts, and injured her ribs, it put her at risk of pneumonia and bronchitis. The other females bitched, but she pretty laid it down that they had to sleep sitting up; the LT backed her up, and they got used to it.

Aine had been her annoying self. Exploring the complex, shadowing me, following Stokes or Nagle around like a puppy, and in general, being a weirdo. We knew she slept, but never actually caught her doing it.

Nobody had said anything when Bomber, Dobbs, Lanks, and Stokes had taken Major Mallory to the barracks tunnel entrance and cut him free of the zipties. They'd handed him a .45 with one round in it, then shut the door.

That had been four days ago.

Me? I slept. A lot. And tried to find a nice quiet place with dim lights to grope Nagle, but she was usually too busy. I quit after about the third time when I found Aine waiting in the back of a supply area, or in the rear shower.

Dobbs offered to beat the hell out of her, but I waved it off.

Which brought us back to why we were standing in front of the lower access point, all armed (except for Lancer), and all on edge.

Someone had started trying codes about a half hour before, but the LT had ordered Mellins to override them, keeping the door shut, until we got down there, eventually locking out the panel. We'd geared up, Dobbs insisting on coming along as soon as she heard Lancer had insisted on going, and headed down to the door that we'd locked out.

The far access.

Lancer waved Melkin back, the other man dropping into the small alcove that would give him a little cover, and when Melkin whispered 'clear' Lancer flashed us a grin under the bandages that covered his eyes, and pushed on the door. He put his shoulder into it, the door slowly opening, sunlight on snow pouring into the tunnel with us.

"DON'T MOVE!" came from both us and from outside.

"TWO NINETEENTH SPECIAL WEAPONS!" from us.

"DELTA ONE OH EIGHTH RANGERS!" from outside. "WE'RE HERE TO GET YOU OUT!"

"Stand down," came from outside.

"Send one forward," I shouted. Lancer had moved to his right, away from the door, and pressed against the wall.

"Strickland, go forward," someone ordered.

Outside the pad in front of the door had been cleared of snow, but I could see a massive amount of snow on the ground. Fifteen to twenty feet. They must have worked for hours to clear the pad. I couldn't see the Rangers, but one stood up, out of the snow, dressed in extreme cold weather gear, and moved forward. He had his rifle raised over his head with both hands.

"Are you going to ask them any questions?" Melkins whispered.

"Like what? Who won the Superbowl?" Lancer whispered back.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Strickland, 108th MI, Delta Company," he called out.

"Yeah? What's your post nickname?" I called out.

"Top of the Rock," he answered. "Hey, weren't you blind last time?"

"I recovered," I called back. "Go ahead, come on in, one at a time."

Eleven more shapes resolved themselves, standing up out of the snow and brushing themselves off. Two were carrying M-60's, but all of them kept their weapons pointed away from everyone. One of them turned and waved, four more people coming out of the snow.

"We brought medical. The message said you had badly wounded," the one who ordered Strickland forward.

Strickland had reached us and Lancer held out his hands. "Your weapons," he said.

Strickland looked back. "They want us to turn over our weapons."

"Unless you want to stay out in the fucking snow, you turn in your weapons and be subjected to a search," I called out. "Otherwise you can stay out there, or we'll kill you where you stand."

We couldn't tell his expression under the cold weather mask, but I could tell by their body language that they weren't happy.

"Off with the mask and goggles," I told Strickland, leveling the M-16 at him. "Now."

He gave a sigh, then handed Lancer his rifle before he pulled off his helmet, revealing he was wearing an extreme cold weather mask and cap. He pulled the mask and goggles off his head. He was a redhead, his hair barely in regs.

"Go stand over by Dobbs," I ordered, pointing at where Dobbs was. "Stay at least three meters away. Dobbs, if he gets too close, shoot to kill."

"Yes, Corporal," Dobbs said, staring at Strickland with a flat eye.

Strickland nodded, moving slowly to where Dobbs was pointing.

"Take off the cold weather gear, leave your LBE and Kevlar vest behind, with your helmet," Dobbs ordered.

"No fucking..." Strickland started to say.

Dobbs raised her rifle, aiming it right at Strickland's face. "Do I look like I'm fucking around?" she grated. The scabs all over the side of her face, the bruising, and the black eyepatch all gave her an evil look that Strickland decided not to fuck with.

Strickland glanced at her the fire selector and the trigger of her weapon, able to see that it was on Semi, the whitening of her knuckle showing she had pressure on the trigger. He gulped, and undid his LBE.

We let them in one at a time. Making them give Lancer their weapons, where he stacked them in the little cone we'd all been taught, resting each weapon's forward sight on each other; then moving to where Dobbs watched them strip off their cold weather gear; then moving ten paces down the tunnel where my cousin James and Mellins had them covered from the firing spots. Mellins yelled twice for them to keep at least a single arm interval from one another.

Four of them were carrying medical bags, told us stretchers had been left on the top of the lower egress shack, since the snow was piled up that high, but we made them follow the same rules.

We weren't getting ganked again.

Once they were all down to their winter BDU's and boots, we made them walk in front of us all the way to the control panel. The captain in charge of the Rangers told them to all comply, to take it easy.

"How did you get up here?" I asked the captain.

"Snowplow and two Bradleys," he answered.

I just grunted.

When we got to the command center the LT was standing in the middle of the room at parade rest, and I saw the Rangers react to that sheer presence that rolled off of LT James.

"While I realize you are expecting an apology for the treatment you have received at the hands of my subordinates," the LT states, that flowing formal cadence hiding the slur and Brooklyn accent I'd heard from him several times, "you will not be receiving one." His smile was a small cold thing that didn't touch his eyes. "Two Nineteenth Special Weapons has learned not to trust appearances or apparent credentials, as well in harsh lessons of survival."

His smile showed a little teeth, which made the smile worse somehow. "Specialist Nagle, you will oversee the supposed medical personnel as they examine your patients. Those of you who are medical personnel please raise your hands."

Six hands came up, and Nagle motioned them over to herself. "One weird move, and I'll kill you," she threatened, showing them the .45 she'd taken to carrying by putting her fingers on the butt.

"The rest of you will stand over there, and I will personally verify your credentials," the LT stated. He glanced at me. "Corporal Stillwater, at the slightest hostile move, at any signal from me, you will immediately execute the man that I so indicate."

"Roger that, sir," I said, setting the rifle on the console and slowly drawing my knife before moving over to stand next to the LT.

"Let us begin, gentlemen," the LT stated. "You will hold your wallets out toward me with your left hands, you will withdraw your dogtags from inside your uniform and hold the chain with your right fist, letting the dogtags hang from beneath. Any deviation will be punished."

I grinned.

"Sir, are you going to let him get away with this?" one of the men asked, looking at one of the Rangers who had captain rank on his lapels.

"Just relax, Lieutenant, they're just being prudent if our briefing was accurate," the Captain said. "Right, James?" He grinned.

"Absolutely, Captain Parker," the LT answered.

The LT checked the Captain's ID first, and the Captain moved over by me.

"You look better than last month," The Captain said quietly.

"Feel like hell," I told him. "Nagle doesn't like it that I'm on my feet." I scratched my chest. "Stupid chest tube."

"Get that bad?" he asked me as Strickland moved over to us.

"There's seventeen of us alive" I told the Captain.

"Out of how many this time? Twenty?" the Captain asked. "Not bad."

"Forty-eight," I told him.

"Fucking Hell," Strickland said.

"Yeah. Welcome to Hell," I told him.

"At least you're rescued," Strickland offered.

"Yeah. You saved us, congrats," I answered.

He didn't get the sarcasm.