Of course not. The pilots were looking for traditional Slug massed Warriors, in black armor. But the maggots were burrowing beneath the snow. Zzee. Zzee. The second round cracked rock off the cave lip and shot it across the cave. “Look harder! They’re in our laps.” “Bullfrog, we can’t see jack squat from up here. Our combat floor is now fifteen thousand. Except for pickup. We can’t pick up what we can’t find.” I swore into the mike. “How many did you lose to the heavys yesterday?” “Six, Bullfrog. We gotta stay high or we won’t do you or us any good at all.” Zoomies never changed. Late in the last century, before the Second Afghan, even before the First Afghan, the old Soviet empire’s gunships had been chased back to altitudes that rendered them ineffective against ground targets by a few well-placed shoulder-fired missiles. Not that I blamed the Zoomies.
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