The Omicron Legion by Jon Land

tripod for an M-60 that lay nearby.
    “How did this happen, Johnny?”
    “Norseman’s men didn’t know they were being ambushed until it was too late. They responded with fire in all directions.”
    “Then whatever they killed must have been hauled away.”
    “I don’t believe they killed anything, or even hit anything. Their shots were wild. It is clear they had no targets, only sounds they were supposed to hear.”
    “And then our friends from the complex rushed in and opened fire when they were facing in the wrong direction?”
    Wareagle shook his head. “No, Blainey. All the shells here belong to Norseman’s men. Their bodies have no bullet wounds.”
    “Wait a minute! You’re telling me seven Green Berets armed to the teeth couldn’t protect themselves from an unarmed attack?”
    “I said no guns. I did not say unarmed.”
    “How could they let the Wakinyan get so close? How could Ben Norseman’s men let those things parade right into the middle of a firefight and not take a single one out with them?”
    “I can’t say, Blainey. There are no tracks leading in or out except for Norseman’s. Everything stops here.”
    “Except us, Indian. The one good thing is that the Wakinyan left all the weapons behind. Virtually confirms the fact that they still don’t know we’re in the neighborhood.”
    “Or suggests they want to give us a chance. More sport.”
    “No, they want out. They hit the installation because they had somewhere else they wanted to be. Norseman was in their way. We’re not.”
    “Not yet.”
    McCracken moved to Ben Norseman’s corpse and stripped the pack from his back. Inside was a thick, oblong metallic cylinder about eighteen inches in length. As Johnny brought the cylinder closer to him, it seemed to tremble in his hands.
    “Blainey?”
    “It’s a fuel air explosive, Indian. Once activated it spreads a highly volatile gas over a wide radius for a predetermined period of time and then detonates. The gas ignites, and what you end up with is a huge air blast that leaves nothing behind.”
    “Perhaps Norseman was out to set a trap of his own.”
    “And then he never even got the explosive out of his pack. He would have tried, you know. When what was happening to him became clear, he would have used it.”
    “Which means the Wakinyan didn’t give him the time.”
    “Wouldn’t have taken much, so they must not have given him any,” Blaine said, and started away.
    Stepping through the clearing, Blaine’s foot bumped something solid concealed beneath a bed of leaves. He pushed them aside and grasped a black electronic device. He found the On button and the screen jumped to life, showing a square grid dominated by a circle sweeping over it and then starting again, like a miniature radar screen.
    “A range finder, Blainey?” McCracken nodded. “Five-hundred-yard radius, by the look of it. Norseman wasn’t taking any chances with his pursuit. High tech all the way. Doesn’t look like it helped much.”
    “They knew he was coming. They knew where.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m not sure. The men were killed at close range—when they should have had plenty of warning as well as time. They had neither.”
    McCracken’s eyes fell to the range finder. Its sweep continued, programmed, he assumed, to the specifications of what Norseman had been told he was hunting. The circle closed and started again, nothing showing in the grid.
    “Coast looks clear, Indian.”
    “Like it did to the Green Coats, Blainey.”
    “How far to the boat?”
    “Two hours in the dark. Easy level ground.”
    McCracken was strapping the M-60 to his shoulder. “No reason to travel light then.”
    The moon would have made for plenty of light, if its rays had been strong enough to push themselves through the dense cover of the jungle. In some places it might as well have been a darkened cave they were walking through. Occasionally slivers of moonbeams briefly illuminated a path that seemed