Countdown_ The Liberators Part 48

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

"Terry reports 'mission accomplished,' boss," Waggoner said. "He lost one of his translators. Dead, no dustoff required. But . . . he's got a problem."

"Which is?" Stauer asked.

"Beyond the eleven men left in his own team, and the accountant, he needs transportation for seventy-one more people. He says, 'no argument, he needs it.' He says most of them are skinny and some are kids and that he can pack everybody on two helicopters. On the other hand, Buckwheat does need a dustoff."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE.

The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer.

-D. H. Lawrence

D-Day, two kilometers south of Bandar Qa.s.sim Airport, Ophir

Somewhere up on the ridge, Buckwheat and Fletcher traded shots with some locals who, by now, had become very reluctant to show their heads much. Rattus Hampson couldn't hear the outgoing shots. But he heard altogether too many incoming ones. Still, the ridge protected himself, his patient, and Wahab, even if it didn't do a lot for the snipers.

Buckwheat had trotted into the hide position, unceremoniously dumped Babc.o.c.k-Moore on the hood of the Hummer, grabbed Fletcher and headed back to the ridge. Rattus had suspected that the man was simply too out of breath to give instructions.

Hampson and Wahab had gotten the black Brit to the ground without too much trouble. Now, with Wahab holding a flashlight, Rattus attempted to staunch some pretty severe bleeding.

"Will I ever dance again?" Vic asked, through gritted teeth.

"Sure you will," Rattus answered, cutting away torn cloth to get at the wound.

"Then I should be happy, because I never could before."

"You know how old a joke that is?"

"Don't you know how old we are?"

Gotta save this limey, Rattus thought. Anybody who can crack jokes-even bad ones-with a bullet lodged in his femur is worth keeping.

"You know," Rattus said, conversationally, as he probed for a lump of bronze-jacketed lead, "the last time I removed a bullet from a femur it was a goat's."

"Oh, f.u.c.k," Vic moaned, "I'm in the hands of a veterinarian."

D-Day, PZ Robin, formerly Beach Red, Ophir

In theory, the MI-17 could lift twenty-four combat equipped troops. In practice, if one were determined enough, and willing to pack men in like animals in a stockyard, and didn't carry the potential extra fuel tanks, or machine gun or rocket pods, it could lift forty. Neither they nor the helicopter would enjoy it, but it could be done.

Mooo, Cruz thought, as the double lines of twenty former Marines on each side fed themselves into the cargo bay through the rear clamsh.e.l.l doors. He expected it, but laughed anyway, as the first of his pa.s.sengers sounded off, loudly, "Mooo." Pretty soon the entire load, forty men, was mooing, too, and enthusiastically.

Cruz glanced to his right at his Russian copilot. Sure enough, the Russian understood perfectly well the joke and laughed right along.

"And awayyy we go," Cruz announced, as soon as his crew chief gave him the thumbs up. In his intercom he heard the Russian humming "Ride of the Valkyries" as the chopper lifted.

Ah, American culture, Cruz thought. Such as it is.

The three Hip helicopters started in line abreast. As they lifted, they s.h.i.+fted to a trail formation. Great clouds of sand swirled up around them as they left the beach, deserted, behind. They flew low. There was no sense in going high when the first stop, to drop off the mortars, was less than fifteen minutes away.

Cruz's Hip came down to a bouncy landing. Got to expect that when you're this overloaded. In the rear, the crew chief kicked open the clamsh.e.l.l doors and then got out of the way as six men unloaded, lugging a very heavy mortar with them. To the left and the right, other men, lugging other mortars, did the same. They dropped their chunks of steel and then queued up to receive the ammunition pa.s.sed down to them, hand over hand, by the remaining men on the helicopter. This, twenty-two rounds only, didn't take that long.

Once again, at his crew chief's signal, Cruz pulled pitched and scooted away. He, followed by the other two, headed generally west. They had some time to burn, about fifteen minutes worth, to allow the mortars to set up to fire.

In the event, it took the mortars only about ten minutes before they called on the radio to announce they were ready to support. Cruz dialed in the frequency to the Merciful and said, "Send the air strike in now."

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

Luis had been trained to fire the machine gun mounted on the right side of the plane he had helped build. They even trained him to shoot wearing the funny goggles that let you see at night, like the ones the coyotes sometimes used to slip you across the border. But he'd never actually fired it from a moving aircraft. Still, how different could it be from firing off the side of the s.h.i.+p at a floating container?

On the other hand, taking off from the s.h.i.+p? Well, he'd also helped patch together one plane from the two that had been wrecked. And he'd gotten his hands pretty b.l.o.o.d.y from that salvage job, too. He was . . .

"Senor," he said to the pilot, Harley, "I don't mind telling you I am scared s.h.i.+tless. I thought I was just getting into something harmless, like running drugs or maybe something like that. But this . . . " The Mexican sighed heavily.

"Too late now, amigo," the pilot said, just as the signal was given for him to take off. The plane began to vibrate as he gave it the gas. In moments it was moving at an ever-increasing pace down the PSP flight deck.

Luis closed his eyes. He'd never liked flying and this was worse than most. His stomach dropped as the plane lurched upward.

"Cheer up, Luis," the pilot shouted over the engine. "Nothing much to worry about now except the landing."

Looking to his left, Luis saw a bunch of boats tied up near the sh.o.r.e or pulled right up on the sand. Some of the bigger ones looked fast. He thought, maybe, too, they might be armed.

"I'll go in low," Harley said, "for this first pa.s.s. I'll expend the rockets on the big ones. You can try your luck with the little ones on sh.o.r.e. Got it?"

"Si, got it, senor."

"Good man," Harley said. "Now hang on to your b.a.l.l.s, Luis, you're in for one f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.luva ride."

D-Day, Bandar Qa.s.sim, Ophir

Gutaale looked west from the roof of his main residence in this, the largest city of his almost-country. Even at this distance, the light from the flames of fourteen burning aircraft was enough to notice.

Who would do this to me? the chief wondered. Who could do this to me?

An aide came to the roof and coughed politely.

"Yes, what is it?" Gutaale asked.

"It isn't just an attack on the airfield, Chief," the aide said. "Someone also seems to have stolen a boat from the naval warriors. Their leader has sent one of his faster boats in pursuit. Also . . . "

'Yes?" Gutaale asked, impatiently.

"Also the chief of the naval mujahadin says one of his boats went missing. Supposedly it, and the stolen boat, were in pursuit of a fat prize. The boat that was later stolen returned with engine trouble but the other continued on. It hasn't been heard from and does not respond to its radio."

That aide stood there, awaiting his leader's orders, when another one came up to the roof.

"Sir," said the second aide, "your brother has called. His village, Bandar Cisman, is under attack."

With a curse, Gutaale gave his orders. "Launch the entire fleet of naval mujahadin. Get my personal guard company in trucks and have them a.s.semble here. And tell the armored force near Rako to mount up and go to my brother's aid.

"And I want a status report on everything, everywhere!"

D-Day, Suakin, Sudan

There was a guard not far away, standing in the light reflected off the waters from the prison on the mainland. The guard was pretty sure the boy wouldn't try to escape and, even if he did, that the blame would lie upon Labaan's head. For his part, the captive sat on the edge of the island, looking at the mainland wistfully, but also reminded by the prison's lights that things could have been much, much worse.

So many miles to the north, Adam had no idea that this day, rather this night, had any particular significance. All he knew was that it was somewhere around the fifth or sixth month of his captivity, and that that captivity had become, in many ways, altogether too comfortable. That, and that Makeda didn't approve of "parole."

On the other hand, the girl was realistic. Life had slapped her around far too much for her to be anything else. "Since you can't escape unless you're outside and you can't escape from outside if we're manacled together and since you had better not try to escape without me, since you gave me your word, too, I suppose we'll have to live with it. And, if your word to Labaan wasn't good, I suppose it wouldn't be any good to me, either."

He found himself, from time to time, comparing her with his old girlfriend, back in Boston, Maryam the Ethiopian. Those comparisons did not generally favor the latter.

What was Maryam, after all? Adam wondered. Her father worked for the UN. She grew up among the people Labaan sometimes calls "tranzis." She was going to school on the UN ticket. She lived a sheltered life, an artificial life, with almost no idea of Africa as it was.

Compare that with Makeda, who not only knows Africa as it is, but has experienced the very worst of it, first hand.

Maryam was dark and moody, despite her ignorance and sheltered life. Makeda is bright as the sun, despite her utterly s.h.i.+tty one. I would prefer day over night . . . and . . .

I wonder if, perhaps, Labaan didn't do me the biggest favor of all in taking me.

D-Day, Rako, Punt