Free Shock of War by Larry Bond Page A

into the scraggly grass on the other side of the shoulder. He glanced back and saw Christian, puffing with exertion, some thirty yards away.
    There was no reason to wait. Half-crouching, half-trotting, Zeus went to the last truck in the line. He climbed up on the running board, and put his hand to the door. It was locked. And not only that: the driver was dozing behind the wheel.
    Zeus dropped quickly to the ground, bumping into Christian and knocking him to the pavement.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    â€œSssshhh.”
    Zeus checked each of the trucks. The drivers were sleeping in all of them. Dejected, Zeus trotted went back to his bike.
    â€œMy leg is killing me,” said Christian, trailing him. “I think my ankle’s going to fall off.”
    â€œYou’ll live.”
    â€œNo, look at it.” He held his right leg up. Even in the dim light Zeus could tell the ankle was swollen. “I don’t know how much farther I can go.”
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œI know. It sucks.”
    More than you’ll admit, Zeus thought, considering this mess is all your fault. But he kept his mouth shut; the last thing they needed now was another outburst of insanity.
    â€œWe’ll hitch a ride on one of the trucks,” said Zeus.
    â€œWhat about carjacking one?”
    Zeus considered the possibility.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Zeus. “If we keep the driver with us, he’ll be a problem. If we kick him out, he’ll be sure to call the police.”
    â€œJust shoot him.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake.”
    â€œFuck him. This is a war.”
    â€œWe’re not at war, Win.”
    â€œLike hell we’re not! We just blew up some of their landing ships. And a patrol boat.”
    â€œHe’s a civilian.”
    â€œCrap. What do you want to do? We can’t just walk to Beijing. Why don’t we just turn ourselves in and let them shoot us as spies?”
    â€œYou’re the one that screwed this all up,” answered Zeus. He began to seethe. “You snapped. You’re an asshole.”
    â€œDon’t call me an asshole.”
    â€œYou are. You’ve always been an asshole. At school. At the com—”
    Zeus stopped midsentence, ducking back as Christian threw a haymaker in his direction. Failing to connect, Christian crumbled as his ankle gave way under the weight of his swing.
    â€œAsshole,” said Zeus. “Proves my point.”
    Christian began pounding the ground. Zeus, disgusted, shook his head. Then he realized his companion was crying.
    â€œI am an asshole,” Christian sobbed. “I screwed everything up. I’m a wimp. I’m no good. I’m useless.”
    All true, thought Zeus. But this was one hell of a time for such a revelation.
    He squeezed his fingers against the corner of his temple. They were coming apart—Christian obviously, but he was, too. He already had. The fatigue of the last few days, the stress of the mission, and then the danger behind the lines: they’d reached their breaking point.
    God, was it this easy to crack?
    Zeus had heard dozens of lectures about battle stress and fatigue and posttraumatic stress, but in every story, the flash point had come after real duress: guys being shelled for hours on end, or marching through jungles for days, getting bombed by their own planes.
    What the hell had he been through? One mission.
    Actually, several. And getting to Hainan Island had been an ordeal in and of itself. But still, it shouldn’t have been enough to break him.
    It wasn’t. He was a goddamn, well-trained soldier, for Christ’s sake—a freakin’ major , a MAY-JOR, not some skinny pimple-faced skateboarder tossed into his first firefight without a weapon or a radio.
    Goddamn.
    â€œPull yourself together,” he said, addressing himself as much as Christian. “We gotta get our butts out of here.”
    Christian didn’t answer. But his back