by Young, Tom
“What’s that other helicopter?” Gold asked.
“That’s your Marine Corps,” one of the Canadian pilots said. “It’s a CH-53.”
Gold tried to picture the Navy ship from which the CH-53 would have launched. She’d seen no carrier or any other kind of military vessel among the freighters, and she found it vaguely reassuring that something as fearsome as that Marine helo, bristling with guns and flare magazines, could swoop in from a steel deck somewhere in the ocean beyond the horizon.
The 53 settled to the tarmac near the rescue helicopters, and the UN chopper landed behind it. As the Mi-8 shut down, Gold pressed her talk button to thank the crew.
“I owe you one, guys,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” the crew chief said. “Least we can do.”
Gold removed her headset, released the clasp of her seat belt, and lifted her duffel bag by one of its shoulder straps. She hopped down from the helicopter without waiting for the crew chief to put the boarding steps into place. All the sensations of a middle-latitudes air base hit her at once: heat, dust, exhaust fumes, and the never-ending whine of engines.
The structure with the most antennas and satellite dishes must be the operations center, Gold assumed. She made her way past the first line of sand-filled HESCO barriers, showed her United Nations ID to an Air Force security policeman, walked around another line of HESCO barriers, and pulled open a plywood door.
The scent of dusty sandbags, the beige glow of fluorescent light reflecting off clamshell walls, the stacks of bottled water transported her. This scene could have passed for Kandahar airport in 2002. But the world had changed since then, and not always for the better.
However, her lasting friendship with Parson counted as one good change. She heard his voice before she saw him. His back to the door, he was talking about fuel with someone on his cell phone. Ops center staff, some in flight suits and some in fatigues, worked at desks around him.
“That Marine Corps helo just landed,” Parson said. “They’re gonna want to fill up with JP-8.” He turned, phone still to his ear, and saw Gold. His eyes widened with surprise. “Yeah, thanks,” he said, still maintaining eye contact with Gold. “Don’t worry about the billing.” He terminated the call with a press of his thumb. “Sophia,” he said. “Great to see you, but how did you get here?”
Parson wore his usual desert flight suit with a name tag that displayed his rank and his pilot’s wings. Beside the wings Gold noticed something new: a round badge that consisted of a star adorned with wings and a wreath—the Air Force commander’s insignia.
“I caught a ride on a UN helicopter. Got here as soon as I could. I want to do whatever I can to help you find Gunny Blount.”
Gold put down her bag and embraced him. The brief display of affection in front of other military personnel felt strange, but it violated no regs. She worked in a civilian status now.
After the hug, with her hands still on his arms, she leaned back and regarded him. He looked like he’d worked through the night. Skin sagged under his eyes, and he needed a shave. He still appeared reasonably fit, though. If anything, he’d lost some weight. Maybe subsisting on the food of a deployed chow hall for several days had done that to him.
Before Gold could say more, four Marines came into the ops center. Gold recognized two of them as pilots from the CH-53; they wore flight equipment that included horse-collar-style flotation gear in case they ditched at sea. The other two looked like ground officers and wore digital camo: a captain and a lieutenant colonel. The golden wings of the Navy and Marine Corps Parachutist Insignia gleamed on their uniforms. The lieutenant colonel made introductions.
“I’m Bill Loudon and this is Captain Adam Privett,” he said. “Twenty-second MEU off the USS Tarawa.”
“Yes, I talked to Captain Privett on the phone,” Parson said. “I’m Michael Parson and this is Sophia Gold. She’s with the UN, but she was a sergeant major in the Army, and she’s still in the Reserve.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Major,” Loudon said.
“You, too, sirs.”
“Guys, we’ll help do anything possible to get your men back,” Parson said. “Sophia and I know one of them, so we have a personal stake in this, too.”
“Who do you know?” Privett asked.
Parson told them how they’d met Blount in Afghanistan. He left out the worst parts, but he made it clear how the big gunnery sergeant had impressed him.
“Yeah, we all love Gunny,” Privett said. “I pray to God he’s not dead. If he’s not, those terrorists don’t know who they’re messing with.”
“You got that right,” Parson said.
“So, where do things stand now?” Gold asked.
“These guys are flying out to the crash site today,” Parson said. Loudon frowned and looked toward Gold. Parson added, “Don’t worry; she’s cleared.”
“Where did it happen?” Gold asked.
Parson went to an aeronautical chart taped to the wall and pointed to an X written in pencil. That spot on the map looked familiar to Gold. It was the same location the prisoner had identified during his interrogation, just before he took the cyanide.
Realization came over Gold like the fever of a sudden illness. The prisoner, Ahmed Bedoor, or whatever his name really was, had played the central role in an elaborate ruse. He’d let himself get captured so he could, with seeming reluctance, give up Kassam’s hiding place. But it hadn’t been a real hideout. It had been a well-prepared ambush with heavy weapons and chemicals.
“Oh, my God,” Gold said. “This whole thing was a setup from the start.” She told them about Bedoor’s capture, interrogation, and suicide.
“Wait,” Privett said, holding up his hand. His eyes narrowed at her, and his expression turned cold. “You mean this is your fault? Some hajji comes in with a bullshit story and you send it right up the chain?”
“Captain—” Loudon said.
“Sir,” Privett said, “due respect, but our guys got chewed up because of bad information from this woman?”
“Captain Privett, you will stand down,” Loudon said.
“You’re damned right he’ll stand down,” Parson said. He took a step toward Privett as if to start a bar brawl, shook a finger in his face. “You have no idea who you’re talking about. She was getting her fingernails pulled out by the Taliban when you were ironing your little white milkman’s suit at the Naval Academy.”
Typical Parson, Gold thought. You didn’t go off half-cocked with an accusation about someone close to him, especially when he was this tired and had so much responsibility on his shoulders.
Privett backed away from Parson, held out his palms almost as if in surrender, but he cut his eyes again at Gold.
Gold could understand Privett’s anger because she shared it. His was misdirected; he didn’t realize she’d only interpreted Bedoor’s words—not analyzed them and judged their worth. Those decisions had been made elsewhere. The circumstances had allowed little time to consider all the possibilities; actionable intelligence came with a very short shelf life. Commanders often had to give orders quickly and without full information. And this time the Marines had paid a high price.
“Captain Privett,” Gold said, “nobody likes how this has happened. I’m just an interpreter, and I’m as angry about these terrorists as you are. If you’d seen what I’ve seen—what those chemicals do to people—you’d know what I mean. And I want you to know I came here to help find Gunny Blount.”
Privett still seemed resentful. “Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t see how you can help.”
“I do,” Parson said. “I’d like to send somebody out with you to take photos, but I don’t have any Air Force people I can spare. If you’ll take her with you, I’ll get AFRICOM to put her on the flight orders.”
“We’ll take plenty of photos,” Privett said.
�
��I know, Captain,” Parson said, emphasizing Privett’s lower rank. “But the Air Force will want some of its own, and another set of experienced eyes on the site won’t hurt.”
“Fine with me,” Loudon said, “but she’ll need chem gear.”
“That, we have,” Parson said. He picked up the phone and made a call.
In a storage tent, a supply sergeant helped Parson find chem gear for Gold. While they searched through stacks of cardboard boxes, Gold said, “Thanks for taking up for me, but you didn’t have to be so hard on the captain.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t have to be so hard on you.”
“He’s lost some of his men. That would put anybody on the edge.”
“I know.”
The stocks of extra gear included only one gas mask in Gold’s size, which was small. She tried on the M45 mask, and it seemed to fit reasonably well. But a guess of “reasonably well” wouldn’t cut it in a chemical environment. With Gold still wearing the mask, the sergeant connected a hose from the mask to an electronic test box. The test box’s readout confirmed the mask’s seals fit tightly enough to keep out toxins.
Next, they found a Chemical Protective Overgarment. Parson pulled out his boot knife and sliced open the vacuum-sealed bag that contained the overgarment. The bag hissed as air rushed into the cut made by Parson’s fancy Damascus steel knife.
“Now that I’ve opened this, it’s good only for a hundred twenty days,” Parson said.
“I hope I won’t need it for that long,” Gold said.
“Me, too.”
Parson shook out the CPO coat and trousers. Gold pulled on the trousers and placed the suspenders over her shoulders. The carbon-treated fabric left a chalky residue on her fingers. She adjusted the suspenders for better fit, then tugged at the hook-and-pile fasteners on the waistband. Donned the coat, zipped it, closed the drawcord at the waist. Her new gear also included overboots and rubber gloves.
She began sweating immediately. A day in this suit would test anyone’s physical fitness. She did not look forward to the misery of wearing this thing in the sun. But it sure beat the agony of death by nerve gas.
CHAPTER 19
Blount woke to strange surroundings and strange pains. He didn’t know the time of day or how long he’d slept. Why did his jawbone hurt? And what were those sore places in his leg muscles? But then awareness flooded back into his mind like the toxins flooding his bloodstream, and he remembered his life was over.
Was he already in hell? He deserved it, he figured, for leaving Bernadette and the girls after telling them he’d returned to stay. But despite the misery of chemical sickness and capture, Blount judged that he remained among the living, at least for now. The scene around him, awful though it was, didn’t strike him as a proper representation of hell. Hell would be more crowded.
His clothing felt different. As his mind took stock of his situation, he realized his captors had pulled off his tactical vest and MOPP suit. They must have had to cut the sleeves unless they unfastened his chains while he was out. Now he wore only his combat utility uniform in desert digi-camo, and his desert combat boots.
He needed to piss something awful. He pulled his galvanized pail toward him, unbuttoned the fly of his trousers. Urinated into the pail. His urine flowed dark.
That usually meant dehydration. Blount had no doubt he was dehydrated, but he’d been dehydrated before. And he’d never seen urine that dark—like homemade cider. It smelled bad, too. Was there blood in it? No telling the ways that poison had jacked him up. So maybe he had some kind of kidney problem.
Doesn’t matter, he thought to himself. They’re gon’ kill you a lot sooner than kidney failure will get you, and they’ll do it in a much worse way.
The sound of piss gurgling into the pail woke the tough-looking Legionnaire to Blount’s left. The man grunted, opened his eyes. Winced and placed a chained hand to the pressure bandage on his leg. No one else was in the room except Fender, chained to the wall to Blount’s right, so Blount decided to risk conversation. He buttoned his fly and spoke in a whisper.
“Hey, bud. What’s your name?” The cracked jaw made it hurt to talk.
The man frowned like he didn’t understand. Blount wondered if the guy spoke English at all. But then the man said, “Ivan. Legionnaire First Class Ivan Turgenev.”
Thick accent. English obviously wasn’t his first language, and probably not his second, either. Blount figured his second would be French.
“You a Russian?”
The man nodded.
“I’m Blount. Gunnery sergeant, U.S. Marines. This boy here is Fender. They got more of our guys in the next room.”
Before Turgenev could reply, one of the dirtbags came running in. The dirtbag aimed an AK-47 in Blount’s general direction and shouted, “Quiet! No talk! Pasha coming.”
Blount braced himself for a boot to the ribs or a rifle stock to the face. But the terrorist just turned and went back into the other room. Started yammering in Arabic with the other terrorists.
Now what had the dirtbag just said? Pashcoming? Some Arabic word, maybe. No, he wouldn’t talk Arabic to me, Blount thought. Pash—pasha coming. Somebody was coming. Somebody named Pasha? Whatever it was, it was a big deal to these scumbags. Blount got it: The boss was coming.
So what could that mean? Probably nothing good. Think, Blount told himself. Maintain appearances. Let ’em believe you’re too weak to do anything when they come to take you away to kill you.
Not a hard thing to do, either. Blount still felt weak. His muscles had stiffened as if gummed up with molasses. He hoped they let him live at least another day; he thought he’d need at least that long to get better—assuming he got better at all. Taking one of them with him when he died remained his goal. But if they came to get him now, he wouldn’t have enough fight in him. Just like old Samson, he thought, please give me my strength back in the last five minutes of my life.
From outside, Blount heard the sound of a vehicle pulling up. Maybe more than one vehicle. Lots of babbling in Arabic. How did they understand one another when they all kept talking at the same time? He sat up, slid on his hips across the floor to the farthest reach of his chains, tried to look out a window.
The chains would have allowed Blount to stand; they had enough length for that. But he didn’t want his captors to know he had the strength to get up. Truth to tell, he didn’t know for sure whether he could get up. Maybe tomorrow.
Blount could see nothing except the red fireball of the sun low in the sky. He didn’t even know which way was east or west, so he couldn’t tell with certainty whether the sun was rising or sinking. Without his watch, he could only guess. The scumbags didn’t act like they’d just gotten up, so maybe it was late afternoon. He’d find out in a few minutes as he watched the sun come up or go down.
The sun settled lower. So he’d slept—or remained unconscious—all day. Or at least a day. He had no idea.
Fender began to stir. Blount half crawled, half pulled himself by one of his chains to return to the young Marine’s side. The sweat on Blount’s arms felt slimy, not like the healthy perspiration of a workout but the fever sweat of sickness. Dust and grit clung to his wet skin, adding to the general sense of filth and illness. Fender opened his eyes, and Blount noticed the corporal’s expression of horror. No, Fender, Blount thought, this ain’t a bad dream. It’s real. Blount had just experienced the same kind of awakening several minutes earlier.
“Don’t talk or make a lot of noise,” Blount whispered. “Some kind of boss man just got here.”
Fender’s expression turned quizzical. Blount had no more answers to give. He wished he could tell Fender to remember his training, his Code of Conduct. For that matter, Blount hoped he himself could live up to the Code. He couldn’t remember the whole thing, but Article III, the section most relevant to him now, stuck in his mind: If I am captured I will contin
ue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and help others escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
Well, that last part didn’t count for much here. A special favor from this enemy would mean dying by a bullet instead of a blade. But the Code’s overall points still held. Blount considered that he, Fender, and every other allied serviceman here remained on duty. Just because you got captured didn’t mean you didn’t have responsibilities.
Fender unbuttoned and pissed into his pail. Blount couldn’t see the color of the urine. After Fender finished, Blount decided to risk talking one more time.
“You sick?”
“Kinda. You?”
Blount held out his hand, palm down. Waggled it side to side, chain clanking. So-so. I’m feeling just so-so. Fender nodded.
At least he wasn’t blubbering. That’s right, boy, Blount thought. Resist. Even if that means nothing except not letting them see you break down.
The chattering in Arabic continued in the next room, but now one voice addressed the others. Evidently the boss was telling them what was what. Blount wondered what the other three prisoners in there were seeing and hearing. Whatever they were doing, they weren’t talking. Blount had never heard them speak.
After a while, Blount smelled something cooking. At first he thought his chemical-addled senses fooled him, but the smell grew stronger. Maybe the scumbags were about to feed the prisoners. Blount didn’t feel like eating; under these circumstances he could certainly take no pleasure from a meal. But he decided to eat whatever they gave him. He wanted one last burst of strength, and for that he needed nourishment.
Boss man in there kept on yakking. Blount had attended mission briefs that didn’t take that long. Probably prattling on about some jihadist kill-the-infidels foolishness.
The sermon finally ended. One of the terrorists, Rat Face, brought in two clay bowls of something that steamed. He put one bowl down beside Fender and the other beside Ivan. Blount wondered if out of spite Rat Face was going to starve him, but the terrorist came back with one more bowl and set it down beside him. Rat Face plunked it to the floor so quickly that some of the contents sloshed out. Then he danced backward to get out of Blount’s reach.
