Interpreter #6

"My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon...I will return again."
~Led Zeppelin

We were southwest of the Kasmir border, moving on a small city called Tatet. I took a position on a high embankment and scattered the rest of the Mech down both sides of the hill facing the pathetic, burned out skyline.

The Interpreter was speaking into my right ear. He wasn't talking to me - I knew exactly what was about to happen. He was talking to the new guy Gildge, our replacement medic of almost one whole week. Specialist Gildge was about to witness Tarantula Hawk for the first time, and the interpreter was talking him
through it.

Sgt. Mason Dawes came up with the 'Hawk crew and began setting up while the 'Terp babbled out his lesson:

Fuck. Don't talk about this shit dude, right? Not even here. Fuck. Especially not here. See the bus?

I could see the bus: an ancient American model, no tires, no windows, parked down the block facing us at about 300 meters. Across the street was Tatet's only block of buildings. The highest one was seven stories, a burned out hi-rise poking like a dandelion from the rotted slums at it's base.

The interpreter ran a detailed play by play as Mase's crew prepared the rocket. He said:

The rag heads are gonna break for it They'll hear the strike and then run out the bottom. They gonna go out the back and up from the basement. Bad guys will run with they women, children, whatever the fuck, thinkin' we wont shoot. Gaines 'gonna put one on top and you watch...

Mase shouted "fire in the hole!!!" and there was a huge "whoosh!". We watched as the rocket cleared the quarter of a mile to the target in a split second. In movies, rockets are slow, with a billowy contrail to follow. A real rocket is like a giant, exploding bullet, clearing range in an instant rush of noise and impact and lingering aftershocks. The top of the hi rise burst like a salute, the ground shook beneath us, and the 'Terp spoke up again:

Here they come. Watch the fire escape, the doors...

Within seconds the street outside was full of people. We saw a few men, one or two with weapons. Mostly we saw women and kids, mostly running, some carried. There was a confusion, short lived, about who was going where. Within a few minutes the street was clear again. Silence on the hillside until I heard Gildge:

So that's it? Why'd..

The interpreter ignored him:

The fuckers think we're gonna shoot out some walls and move out. We blew the building to get 'em in cars.

Now fire teams on both sides of the hill begin an enfilade down the streets on both sides of the building. Short bursts punctuated the Terp's dramatic whispering, adding drama to his usual sense of the moment. As he spoke Sarnt. Mason brought up another detail: four men carrying two large black canvas bags. They worked without speaking in a miniature swarm of urgent movement. In seconds they were ready. Two simple black tubes on braced, four-point mounts now stood beside us on the hill-top, their long graphite appendages anchored deep in the ground. Mase turned on the juice as the last refugees made the bus. An odd sound came up, like a television running white noise. It seemed to come from everywhere, filling the air around us.

I watched the crews run their system checks and fall back, and I backed up a few yards myself, more out of habit than any realistic sense of danger. I heard Mase give the orders to hang fire, and the Hawks began to wind out. The TV noise in the air morphed into a din, like a fleet of prop-bombers over- revving on a runway. It rose in volume and octave to a haunted, mad wail, and a brilliant flash of red and orange light brightening the distance between our position and the targets in the street. Then it was over.