Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

coordinated strike on the village. Averbach ended up going south alone. When he had returned, the chapel was burning, and Bogdanovich was dead in the street.
    Wit arrived at the chapel and found Averbach carrying out bodies. Several of the corpses already lay in the street covered with sheets, and villagers were wailing and crying and raising their arms heavenward as they identified the dead.
    There were other bodies, too. About ten men. All riddled with bullets or other wounds, lying in circles of their own blood. Several women and children were throwing rocks at these corpses, spitting and shouting curses and screaming through their tears. Bogdanovich hadn’t gone down without a fight apparently.
    An elderly woman was kneeling beside another body, this one wrapped in bloody sheets and sprinkled with flower petals. The villagers and children pointed at the body and told Wit what he already suspected. It was Bogdanovich.
    Wit nodded and thanked them, then went directly to Averbach, whose face was covered in soot and sweat, and who had gone back into the chapel to retrieve more of the dead. Wit and Calinga pulled on their latex gloves and fell into step beside him. Without speaking they delicately helped Averbach lift another body from the ashes and onto a sheet, which they then used as a stretcher to carry the body out into the street. It was gruesome, horrific work. The air was thick with the scent of charred human remains, and the timbers and ashes continued to smolder, burning Wit’s eyes with the smoke. It took a great deal of concentration for Wit to control his gag reflex and maintain a reverent composure.
    When they finished, twenty-six charred bodies lay in a line, some of them burned beyond recognition. Many of them were children. A block away another fire was burning in the street. Some of the villagers had dragged the dead Rémeseh militants into a heap and set the bodies on fire. Bogdanovich remained untouched, and now more of the village’s elderly women kneeled beside him, offering their respect and prayers.
    Wit spoke in his broken Indonesian to one of the men, asking if anyone in the village had seen in which direction the surviving Rémeseh had fled. As he suspected, no shortage of people came forward. They all pointed to the south.
    “I will leave one of my men here with you,” Wit told them in Indonesian. “He will protect you. He is as good a soldier as Bogdanovich, if not better.”
    “No one is better,” the crowd cried. “No one is braver. More would have died if not for him.”
    Wit got the stretcher down from the chopper, then he and Calinga delicately lifted Bogdanovich into a body bag. They kept him wrapped in the sheets, then loaded the body into the Air Shark. Calinga stayed behind. Wit took the pilot’s seat, and Averbach sat shotgun.
    When they were up in the air, Averbach said, “This is my fault. Bog had gone local. He had fallen in love with one of the women in the village. Nothing ever happened between them. They were never alone. But I noticed the furtive looks she gave him. And I noticed that he noticed and didn’t seem to mind. He never said anything to me, but I should have told you. We should have pulled him out. It clouded his judgment.”
    “I figured as much,” said Wit. “It wasn’t like Bog to disobey an order.”
    “The villagers said Bog would have taken down all the Rémeseh if not for the chapel. The woman was inside. When the Rémeseh set it on fire and padlocked the door, Bog went for it. He tried to give himself enough cover to reach the door, but it was a trap. They had three snipers waiting. They burned the church, not to kill the people inside but to flush Bog out.” Averbach shook his head. “I should have been with him. I could have taken the snipers.”
    “I sent you south,” said Wit. “You obeyed orders. That’s what you should have done.”
    They flew south, but saw little through the jungle canopy. After an hour of searching they headed back to Pakuli and delivered Bogdanovich’s body to the medical team who would prepare it for shipment back to Russia.
    Another one lost, thought Wit. That was four in Indonesia. Four too many.
    He had hoped that the Indians would join in the fight. He could use the PCs; they were excellent trackers. But the Indians were being skittish. The PCs were willing, but the powers that be didn’t want to commit troops.
    I need more men, thought Wit. I should have taken that Maori bastard, Mazer Rackham. I