by Young, Tom
The terrorists thrown from the vehicle scrambled for their weapons. Blount kept firing on semi-auto, one shot at a time. So did Escarra, Fender, and Grayson. Two of the dirtbags raised themselves and fell immediately as the escapees’ rifles popped off rounds and ejected brass.
The sharp edge of rifle smoke salted the air. Two jihadists lay prone, firing. One in front of the vehicle fumbled with his launch tube.
Over the shooting, Blount heard—and felt—the thudding rhythm of helicopters. The crews needed to know what they were flying into. Blount thumbed his transmit switch again.
“Pedro,” he called, “Havoc’s in contact. Enemy clustered around overturned pickup.”
“Copy enemy pickup truck,” the pilot answered.
The jihadists’ rounds flung little geysers of sand around the men. Escarra cried out when a slug struck his upper left arm. Blount saw the blood begin to redden the Spaniard’s sleeve.
Hot, sharp things pricked Blount’s face: grit kicked up by bullets striking the ground. The enemy must have heard the choppers, too. The guy with the launcher started looking up at the obscured sky. Blount touched off a shot at him just as he scrabbled around to the other side of the pickup. Missed.
Now the guy could fire at the choppers from behind cover. Not good. The aircraft would come within range at any moment; Blount heard the slap of rotor blades getting louder. Yet, above him, he could still see nothing but a sky filled with dirt.
This whole mess had started when jihadists bagged a helicopter. Not happening again, Blount decided.
“Gimme some covering fire,” he yelled. “I’m gon’ flank ’em.” Blount wanted to move around toward the other side of the truck so he could aim at launcher guy behind it.
Fender, Grayson, and Escarra poured rounds downrange. Blount knew it was a calculated risk to burn through limited ammunition by using it up as covering fire. But he hoped the choppers would open up at any moment with their immense firepower.
One of the terrorists still inside the cab fired out through the windshield. His shots chewed out an opening the size of a basketball in the safety glass. Fender returned fire, ejected an empty mag. While Fender reloaded, Grayson and Escarra kept shooting, and Grayson’s weapon emptied. They could keep firing at this rate only for a few more seconds.
Blount leaped to his feet. Sprinted in front of the truck, about forty yards away from it, hoping for a good firing angle. The terrorists’ bullets cracked around him. The dirtbags were dividing their fire between Blount and the other three men.
From the corner of his eye Blount saw a helicopter take shape above him. The aircraft appeared gauzy and translucent through the dust, an inanimate object forming spontaneously amid the storm. Close, too. Well within the kill range of an RPG or shoulder-fired missile.
Just before Blount gained a good angle on his quarry, a round struck his tactical vest. The slug failed to penetrate the vest’s protective insert, but it knocked him off his feet. Blount tumbled into the sand. He hugged his rifle close as he hit the ground, and he managed to keep dirt from fouling the muzzle of the M16. The flintlock pistol in his pocket dug into his thigh. He coughed, felt a sting in his ribs.
Blount remained on the ground, rolled twice. Ended up in a prone position about twenty yards from the truck’s front end, with his rifle pointed at launcher guy. Blount had a clear shot now, and he could see the man’s weapon better. Sure enough, an RPG-7 tube.
The Pave Hawks began descending, both finally coming into clear view. Tangible machines now instead of vaporous suggestions of themselves.
Launcher guy situated himself on one knee, raised his weapon. The lead helicopter thudded directly overhead, presented an easy target for an RPG. Blount settled his optical sight on the man’s center mass. The dirtbag sighted with his launcher, cheek against its heat shield, fingers curled around its grip and trigger.
Blount fired.
Launcher guy crumpled but held on to his weapon. Blount fired again. The M16’s bolt locked open. Empty.
The dirtbag pushed himself up from the ground with one hand. He moved as if a great weight hung across his shoulders. At least one of Blount’s rounds had connected, but perhaps not with mortal effect.
Blount pressed his magazine release button, and the spent mag dropped into the sand. He tore open a vest pouch for his one spare mag.
Launcher guy now sat cross-legged, like an exhausted workman taking a break. Lifted the weapon.
Blount clicked the new mag into his magazine well, smacked the bolt release. The weapon slammed closed, deadly once more.
The dirtbag took aim again with his RPG launcher.
Blount opened up, this time on burst fire. Three rounds spat from his weapon just as launcher guy squeezed his own trigger.
The bullets from the M16 tore into the man’s shoulders, neck, and head. The grenade sailed wide, disappeared into the sky as if the dust had absorbed it. If the RPG fell back to earth and detonated, Blount never heard it. Too much other noise.
Most of that noise came from the minigun jutting from the side of the Pave Hawk. Its barrels, spun by an electric motor, spewed hot metal at such a rate that the desert floor churned. Empty casings tumbled from a black hose in a hail of glinting brass. When the stream of fire found the truck, the vehicle shuddered and clanked as the gun dismembered it. What remained of the windshield exploded in a splash of white. A body, hardly recognizable as human, slumped through the windshield frame. Another figure lay inside the cab on top of the first corpse. Blood spattered across the punctured hood.
The two men who’d fired from outside the vehicle died last. The minigun’s column of fire seemed to drive them into the ground. Their AK-47s fell silent, surrounded by bloody clothing and torn flesh.
Blount watched the wreckage for a moment, checked for any further threats. Kept the first joint of his index finger on his trigger. No sign of movement came from the smoking, riddled vehicle. He pressed his transmit switch and said, “Pedro, Havoc Two Bravo. Hold your fire. Lemme observe your target.”
“Pedro copies.”
Blount picked himself up, ran forward in a crouch. Up close, he found it difficult to confirm eight separate enemy bodies, but it became clear nothing in that vehicle could ever present a danger again. He pressed his transmit switch again.
“Pedro,” he called, “you got a cold LZ.”
“Copy that, Havoc. Stand by for pickup.”
“Yes, sir. Be advised we have at least one wounded.”
Blount slung his rifle and trotted to where Fender, Grayson, and Escarra still lay prone.
“Y’all okay?” he asked.
“Escarra’s hit,” Fender said.
“I know it.”
Fender and Grayson seemed all right. One of them had already tightened Escarra’s CAT tourniquet on the wounded arm. Didn’t look real messy, so maybe he’d keep the arm. When Blount had last taken refresher first aid, the instructors told him to forget the old-school wisdom that cranking down a tourniquet meant sacrificing a limb. Get a wounded man to the right kind of help in that first golden hour, and miracles could happen.
About eighty yards away, one of the choppers began lowering itself to the ground. The other stayed high for overwatch. Gale from the rotors magnified the blast of the dust storm. Sand flew sideways and drifted over spent cartridges on the ground.
“Let’s get out of here, boys,” Blount shouted.
The Pave Hawk settled to the sand. The left-side gunner pivoted his weapon, swung the muzzles away from Blount and his men. Two pararescuemen hopped out of the aircraft, wearing specially made helmets that allowed room for headsets underneath. They carried carbines across their chests as they ran to the escapees.
Blount placed his hands on top of his head. Fender and Grayson did the same, while Escarra held out his good arm. Even though Blount had authenticated his identity, the men still need
ed to look as nonthreatening as possible to a helicopter crew touching down in a combat zone.
“We got one with an arm wound,” Blount yelled over the rotor noise.
“We’ll take care of him,” the first pararescueman said. On his vest hung spare mags, chemlights, pens, and a set of medical shears. A patch of glint tape on the man’s arm read PJ.
The two PJs helped Escarra into the chopper. Blount hung back, let Fender and Grayson board next. As the two young Marines buckled into seats made of webbing, Blount climbed aboard. The sight of the aircraft interior, with its dangling cords, winking indicators, fire extinguisher, hand trigger for the hoist control, brought Blount a rush of relief. He felt nine-tenths of the way to his own front porch. The Pave Hawk began climbing as soon as he sat down.
He closed his eyes, savored the motion, let the wind rush over him through the open doors. No, this was more than relief. His fingers tingled with a sense of well-being and gratitude. Dear God, Blount thought, we’re all right. We get to live the rest of our lives. Steal away home, like the old song says.
“Oo-rah!” Fender shouted.
Grayson and Escarra began hooting and stamping their feet.
“Fuckin’ oo-rah, buddy,” Grayson yelled. He clapped Escarra’s shoulder on the man’s good side. The PJs began to examine Escarra’s wound. The crewmen at the two miniguns gave thumbs-up signs.
“Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” a gunner called out.
The dust thinned as the helicopter gained altitude. Blount could see the second Pave Hawk flying in formation just off to the side. Since he did not wear a headset he could not hear the crew’s interphone chatter, but he supposed they were delivering good news by radio. He watched them smile, nod to one another, pump fists in the air.
As the sun set, the Pave Hawks refueled in the air. The wake turbulence of the HC-130 tanker bounced the helos like a tractor jouncing along a washboard farm path. Made Blount a little queasy, but he didn’t mind.
When the Pave Hawks broke away from the big plane, the air suddenly felt smooth. The moon began to rise. Fender called out, “Hey, Gunny. Maybe this is a better time to ask. What do your initials A. E. stand for?”
Blount smiled, considered whether to answer the question the corporal had first asked weeks ago at Sigonella. What the heck?
“Alonzo Erasmus.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Alonzo Erasmus.”
Fender laughed, punched Grayson’s arm. Grayson began laughing, too.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Fender said. “We’re gonna tell our parents our lives were saved by Gunnery Sergeant Alonzo Erasmus Blount?”
“You do that.”
CHAPTER 34
Parson couldn’t wait to tell Gold the good news that had just come over the radio. As ops center staff cheered and exchanged backslaps, he headed for the locked room normally used to give aircrews their tactics and intel briefings. Gold probably hadn’t heard the sounds of celebration; she was in the briefing room.
He knocked on the door, and Gold unlocked it and cracked it open. Inside, Parson saw Major Ongondo and two CIA officers talking with the Tuareg refugees. VFR charts depicting segments of North Africa hung by tacks on the plywood walls. Shelves held stacks of booklets containing instrument approaches and airport data. Ongondo wore an intent expression, and he wrote furiously on a notepad.
“Can you come out?” Parson whispered. “They found ’em. Blount’s on the helicopter with three others.”
Gold’s face brightened. “That’s wonderful,” she said. She stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. Someone, probably one of the CIA spooks, locked the door from the inside. Gold gave Parson a tight embrace, then let go of him and returned with him to the ops desk. Whoops and cheers continued to fill the room, and the loudest came from the Marine lieutenant colonel, Bill Loudon. The other Marine officer, Captain Privett, had returned to the Tarawa to help get ready for whatever might come next.
“Hot damn,” Loudon cried. He picked up a sat phone and punched in a number, presumably to Privett or someone else on the ship. Amid the noise of celebration, he held the phone to one ear and covered the other ear with his hand as he talked.
The door at the front of the ops center swung open and Chartier came in. He still wore his flight suit, but he had shed his G suit, survival vest, and all other flying gear.
“There’s our new best friend,” Parson said. “Hey, Frenchie. The Pave Hawks picked ’em up.” Parson put his arm around Chartier’s shoulders, squeezed hard, and said, “Good work, you froggie bastard.”
“Très bien,” Chartier said with an embarrassed smile. “Nothing could make me happier.”
Parson released the Frenchman and said, “Let me introduce you to Sophia. She and I go way back.” He turned to Gold and said, “This is Captain Alain Chartier. He flies those shiny Mirages out there. Frenchie, this is my old friend Sergeant Major Sophia Gold.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Chartier said. “You’re with the American army?”
“I was,” Gold said. “I work with the United Nations now.”
As Gold and Chartier chatted, Parson sat down at the ops desk. He gripped the edges of the counter with both hands, closed his eyes, lowered his head. Let satisfaction flow into him like a cool drink of water. He thought of a line Saint-Ex wrote in Wind, Sand and Stars:
Every pilot who has flown to the rescue of a comrade in distress knows that all joys are vain in comparison with this one.
Roger that, Saint-Ex, Parson thought. Moments like this didn’t come often in a career, and he hoped the Pedro crews and everybody in the ops center could carry this day around with them in their hearts. Maybe it would help sustain them through whatever pains, losses, and setbacks lay in their futures.
Gold pulled over an office chair and sat beside Parson. She placed a hand on his arm but said nothing. Parson felt grateful she was there to share this moment with him, its simultaneous joy and pain. They had gone through so much together, and a lot of it had given no cause for celebration. He suspected she knew what he was thinking, and when she finally spoke, she confirmed his guess.
“It’s such good news that Blount and the others are safe,” she said, “but I keep thinking about the two who aren’t coming back.”
Parson leaned back in his chair, pressed his fingers over her hand. The way the light struck her face, with her hair flowing over the folds of her Afghan scarf, she looked like some kind of guardian angel in an epic legend. But in the real world, not even guardian angels like Gold and mighty warriors like Blount could save everybody.
“I do, too,” Parson said.
He looked around the room at the tactics officers, schedulers, weather forecasters, and other personnel. For the first time in days he felt he could take a few minutes to catch his breath and clear his mind.
“You know,” Gold said, “in a way, Captain Privett was right. Those guys flew into a trap because of bad intel I helped gather.”
Parson gave her a quizzical look. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You did your job. You can’t help what somebody else did with that information.”
Gold fingered her scarf, looked into its fabric as if seeking answers. “That’s sort of what I’ve been thinking about,” she said. “I translate and interpret, but I’d like to have more control over what happens next.”
“Hmm,” Parson said. “You thinking about a career change?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe change the way I go about things, though. Maybe get into some volunteer work.”
“Look,” Parson said. “I can’t think of anybody who’s done more good for more people than you. If you want to feed starving children, that’s great, and I’m sure you’ll do it well. But don’t start thinking you have to change the world by yourself. Look around you.”
Puzzled, Gold glanced around the room at the ops center personn
el.
“Everybody here is a control freak,” Parson said. “Everybody’s an alpha dog. Wallflowers don’t volunteer for this stuff. But we’re a team. Nobody has to go it alone.”
Gold gave that half smile of hers. Parson thought it was a beautiful expression, and he wished she’d smile more often. He wanted to talk with her more, but that would have to wait. He still had things to do.
“All right, people,” he called, “they’ll get here before you know it. Let’s make sure we got a place for them to sleep and that the medical folks are ready.”
“Yes, sir,” a lieutenant answered.
By the time the Pave Hawks landed, night had fallen. Sodium-vapor lamps lit the parking apron, and the harsh glow backlit the aircraft. Word of the rescue had spread through the camp, and Chartier and other fliers waited outside with Parson, Gold, and Loudon.
The Pave Hawks taxied from the runway and settled on the ramp with their rotors spinning. After a few minutes the rotors spun down. Figures moved inside the helicopters; Parson craned his neck for a glimpse of the survivors. Finally, a crewman stepped out, followed by two young Marines.
Claps and cheers broke out among the waiting personnel. The Marines helped another man emerge from the chopper, evidently the wounded Legionnaire, who sat down in the back of a waiting ambulance. Then a big black man got out, carrying weapons and gear.
“There he is,” Gold said. She put one hand on Parson’s arm, pointed with the other. “Thank God,” she added.
“They look tired,” Loudon said.
“They gotta be,” Parson said. He motioned to a Security Police pickup truck several yards away. The truck rolled toward Parson.
“Sir?” the driver said.
“Let’s get their weapons and lock them up in the armory,” Parson said.
“Yes, sir.”
The truck met the Marines as they walked across the ramp. Two SPs got out of the vehicle and began collecting the weapons and gear. Parson, Gold, and Loudon caught up and greeted the men.
“Welcome back, devil dogs,” Loudon said. He shook each man’s hand, gripping with both of his own. “You done us proud.”
