Sand and Fire (9780698137844)

by Young, Tom

  “Thank you, sir,” Blount said. “Just wish we could have brought back more.”

  “Said a lot of prayers for you, Gunny,” Gold said. She stepped forward and embraced him. Her head came up only to the tape over his chest pocket that read U.S. MARINES.

  Blount let Sophia hug him for a few seconds. He placed a wide hand on her back and opened his mouth to speak. But whatever he started to say, he kept it inside. He looked up at the sky for a long moment, and when he turned his gaze back to earth, Parson saw that his eyes glistened.

  Though the survivors’ exhaustion showed plainly, Blount’s face also displayed a look of sublime relief. Parson could relate; he’d been rescued from a similar situation in Afghanistan years ago. But a U.S. and Afghan special ops team had saved Parson. Blount and his men had managed their own escape. Parson looked forward to hearing that story; he almost pitied any idiot foolish enough to trifle with Blount.

  “We need to let the docs check you out,” Loudon said. “But after that, what do you want first? Food, rest, or a call home?”

  “I want to call home, sir,” Blount said.

  “I do, too, sir,” Fender said.

  “Same here,” Grayson said.

  Blount unclasped his tactical vest and twisted out of it. Parson took it from him. The vest felt warm from Blount’s body heat. That’s right, Parson thought. My buddy’s still alive. And the people who fucked with him are probably stone cold by now. Parson swung the vest into the back of the pickup truck. It landed with a thud among the rifles and other equipment.

  “I didn’t know you and Sergeant Major Gold were here, sir,” Blount said. “Real, real good to see you.” His voice caught, and the big man struggled for words. “All of you,” he added finally. He clapped Fender on the back and said, “Glad you can meet my buddies, here.”

  Up until then, Parson thought Blount had done an almost superhuman job of maintaining his military bearing. But something finally caused the dam to break—perhaps it was simple exhaustion, perhaps the emotional overload of finding himself suddenly surrounded by people who loved and respected him. Blount’s knees seemed to buckle. He caught himself by placing his hands on the edge of the truck’s tailgate. He folded his elbows over the tailgate, buried his head in his arms. Blount’s shoulders shook but he made no sound.

  Fender and Grayson stayed close to him. Neither man spoke, but both of them patted his back and took hold of his arms, just to let him know they were there.

  A blue Air Force crew van pulled up. Parson whispered to the driver, “Give ’em a minute.”

  Blount raised himself. His eyes streamed, but otherwise he regained his composure. “Let’s get moving,” he said.

  Loudon ushered the Marines into the crew van. He held the door for them, and just before closing it, he said, “Guns, I know you like cigars. I got one waiting for you when the docs turn you loose.” He slid the door until it slammed shut.

  “Thank you, sir.” The sound of Blount’s bass voice came from within the van as it drove away, flashers on.

  Back in the ops center, Parson lost count of how many phone calls he made and received. He talked to AFRICOM, Headquarters Marine Corps, and the Joint Special Operations Command. Chartier called the French Foreign Legion Command in Aubagne, France. Then Parson talked to Marine Corps and Air Force public affairs officers in the Pentagon so they could brief the media. He asked them to hold the news for at least an hour to give the men time to call home.

  Finally, Loudon escorted Blount, Fender, and Grayson into ops. Blount let the younger Marines call first. Parson found a bottle of cold water for Blount to drink while he waited, and Gold went back to check on Ongondo’s progress with the Tuareg boys. When Blount’s turn came to make his call, he went to the phone at Parson’s desk. Parson stepped away to give him at least a little privacy, but in the confines of the cramped workplace, he couldn’t help but overhear.

  “Baby, it’s me,” Blount said. “I’m safe.”

  Even through the phone’s tinny speaker, bounced through space, the voice of the woman on the other end came in loud enough for Parson to hear. She gave a long shriek of joy and then began speaking hurriedly. Parson could not make out her words.

  “I’m fine, baby,” Blount said. “Well, I’m a little tired.”

  Pause.

  “I’m so sorry I—”

  Pause.

  “I’m so sorry I put you through—”

  Pause.

  “I love you, too.”

  Though it was none of his business, Parson liked the sound of the conversation. Blount’s wife wouldn’t let him express any guilt; she was just happy to have him back.

  “No, they think I’m all right,” Blount said. “They want to do some more tests.”

  More excited chatter on the other end.

  “Yeah, I’m in an ops center right now. Don’t know when I’m coming home. Probably soon. I’ll let you know.”

  Slower chatter on the other end. Parson supposed Mrs. Blount was getting her mind around the idea that her husband would be all right.

  “Grandpa doing okay?” Blount asked.

  Faster chatter.

  “That don’t surprise me,” Blount said. “I wish I was tough as him.”

  Blount spoke with three other people. From hearing one side of the conversation, Parson surmised they were his kids and his grandfather.

  By the time Blount hung up the phone, the news had gotten out. Parson looked up at a TV tuned to CNN and saw the crawl at the bottom of the screen: Three Marines, one Legionnaire recovered in Sahara . . . Chem attack mastermind still at large . . . UN worker and refugees narrowly escape Algeria assault.

  “Word travels fast,” Loudon said.

  “Yes, sir, I guess it does,” Blount said.

  “I got something for you, Guns. Let’s go outside.”

  “Thank you, sir. I got something for you, too.”

  Loudon and Parson gave each other questioning looks. Blount had just survived capture and slogged through part of the Sahara. What gift could he possibly have?

  The three men stepped out of the ops center. Sand barriers and razor wire ringed the tent complex, and a stack of spare sandbags lay in front of the building. Parson, Loudon, and Blount sat on the pile of sandbags. Loudon reached into a chest pocket and withdrew a cigar. From another pocket he pulled a cigar cutter and clipped the end. Handed the cigar and a lighter to Blount.

  “It’s a Montecristo, Guns,” Loudon said. “You’ve sure earned it.”

  “Very kind of you, sir.”

  Blount placed the cigar in his mouth, turned it over a couple of times. Closed his eyes, apparently savoring a luxury he’d thought he’d never experience again. Parson recalled that Blount had grown up on a tobacco farm. Perhaps the taste and smell took the big man home.

  “Is that the Cuban Montecristo or the Dominican?” Parson asked.

  “Cuban,” Loudon said. “Perfectly legal. Bought it in Italy.”

  “I sure appreciate it,” Blount said, teeth clamped around the Montecristo. He flicked the lighter. The flame guttered in the breeze still rolling in from the desert. Blount cupped the fire with his hand, lit the cigar, let a long stream of smoke escape from his lips. The smoke joined the dust still dancing in the air. The rich, sweet scent made Parson think of burning molasses.

  Blount stared out across the ramp. He seemed to look past the lamps, past the runway, past the civilian terminal to something deep in the darkness. Parson and Loudon gave him several minutes of quiet. During that time he simply smoked the cigar and said nothing. Each time he took a puff, the lighted end of the Montecristo brightened and crackled. The ash tip had enlarged. Blount tapped the cigar. The section of ash fell away and shattered on the ground.

  Finally, Blount said, “Here’s what I got for you.”

  He held the cigar between the index finger an
d middle finger of his right hand. With his left hand, he reached into a cargo pocket on his trousers. Parson had seen some sort of wooden handle protruding from the pocket but had thought nothing of it. That handle turned out to be the grip of a flintlock pistol—an honest-to-goodness, muzzle-loading, God-knows-how-old antique sidearm.

  “Check this out, sirs,” Blount said, hefting the pistol. “Kassam left this where he’d held us. I took it with me when we left.”

  “Wow,” Parson said. “That’s one hell of a trophy.”

  Blount handed the weapon to Loudon. The Marine officer held it muzzle up, turned it side to side. Swung open the frizzen, examined the pan. Parson marveled that the parts still worked. To his mind, the old firearm practically glowed with history. Made him think of declarations handwritten on parchment, ships propelled by sail, treaties sealed with candle wax. New and old worlds clashing amid swordplay and musket fire.

  “Good common sense, Guns,” Loudon said. “You took that bastard’s little symbol.”

  “Yes, sir, but it ain’t his. If it’s really as old as he says it is, I figure it belongs to the Marine Corps or the Navy.”

  Even in the dim light, the intricacy of the pistol’s checkering and engraving stood out. Parson noticed the lines of grain in the wood, growth rings perhaps from an American tree felled two centuries ago.

  “This thing is beautiful,” Loudon said. “I wonder if it still fires.”

  “I don’t know if I’d shoot it,” Blount said, “but I think it belongs in the museum at Quantico.”

  “I’ll see that it gets there. No, why don’t you do it? You should have the honor of presenting it. That is, unless you want to keep it.”

  “Thanks, sir, but it ain’t no more mine than it was Kassam’s.”

  Loudon passed the flintlock to Parson. Parson admired it for a moment, found the pistol heavier than he’d expected.

  “That’s a great find, Gunny,” Parson said. Handed the weapon back to Blount. Blount pocketed it, took another drag from his cigar. Blew out the smoke, which drifted and scattered.

  “Thing that bothers me,” Blount said, “is I got the pistol from Kassam, but I didn’t get Kassam. And I keep thinking about what happened to Farmer and Ivan. This ain’t no time to celebrate.”

  “You did more than your part,” Loudon said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Blount said nothing. He just gazed out into the black desert. Glanced down at his cigar. Lifted it to his lips and took another puff. The fire at the cigar’s tip lit up enough to cast a glow across his face. Parson noticed that Blount’s eyes did not drift unfocused in the aimless stare of the traumatized. Instead he seemed to gauge something, calculate range, estimate wind. Parson knew that feeling: the same one he had when observing an elk through the mil-dot reticle of a scope, preparing to place a shot.

  Finally, Blount said, “I just wish we had a target.” As he spoke, the ops center’s door opened. Gold and Ongondo emerged.

  “This is my friend Major Ongondo,” Gold said. “I think he can help us with that.”

  CHAPTER 35

  For a second, Blount couldn’t remember where he was. He woke up on a narrow bed—a real bed, not a cot or a sleeping bag—with sheets, and a green military blanket over him. Amber light beamed through the walls of the desert tent, though the cold raised goose bumps on his arms. Air-conditioning?

  Then he recalled everything. Closed his eyes, stretched, inhaled a great chestful of chilled air. Every cell of his brain expressed gratitude—to his fellow Marines, to the other service members who’d helped recover him, to the men he’d brought back, and to the ones who did not survive.

  On the bed to Blount’s right, Fender snored. The corporal lay on his back with his left arm off the bed, knuckles against the wooden floor. Once again, Blount noticed the boy’s tattoo, just a girl’s name: Anne. Go home and marry her and treat her right, Blount thought.

  Grayson slept in the bed to the left, completely covered by a green blanket that rose and fell with his breathing. No sign of Escarra; the Legionnaire had probably slept in the field hospital, unless they’d already shipped him back to France.

  Hunger gnawed at Blount. Fatigue had kept him from eating much last night—just a bowl of cereal at midnight chow before showering and falling into bed. He checked his watch. The analog hands showed nearly noon local time. That was two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time, which Blount read in the digital window of his Citizen chronograph. Blount recalled how the terrorists had taken this watch from him—temporarily.

  He sat up. Blount wore boxers and a Marine Corps–issued T-shirt. Where were his clothes?

  There, at the foot of his bed. Good gracious, somebody had washed his uniform and left it folded by his boots and a set of clean socks. Shirt and trousers, but no hat. He’d worn his helmet off the Tarawa. Well, the Corps would have to forgive him for going outside without a cover until he found a new one.

  As quietly as he could, Blount dressed and tied his boots. He found a key in a pocket of the trousers. What was that? Oh, yeah; Parson had given him a padlock and key so he could store the flintlock pistol and other gear in a wall locker. Nice of Lieutenant Colonel Loudon to let him keep the pistol until he could deliver it personally to the National Museum of the Marine Corps. Good excuse for a family trip, but that would come later.

  Blount unlocked the locker, swung open the door slowly to try to stay quiet. The pistol remained where he’d left it. Beside it lay his grandfather’s KA-BAR in the leather sheath. Blount threaded the sheath onto his belt, closed and locked the locker.

  When Blount stepped outside the tent flap, the brightness hit him all at once. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinted. When his pupils adjusted to the light, he saw four CH-53s on the ramp, Super Stallions from the Tarawa. What was going on?

  An aerostat, which looked a lot like a World War II barrage balloon, floated above the base. The aerostat carried cameras, Blount knew, to watch for bad guys sneaking up on the perimeter. Didn’t take an intel expert to sense the buildup of a new operation in the works.

  He made his way toward the chow tent, though he felt a little lost at first. Parson and Loudon had taken him to eat last night, but things looked different in the daylight. Blount followed the smell of food, his boots crunching through the pea gravel. At a table just outside the tent, he signed a roster on a clipboard. Pumped a squirt of sanitizer into his palm, rubbed it across his fingers. Strong alcohol smell, and the cuts and scrapes on his hands burned.

  He stepped inside the chow tent and found it full of Marines and airmen eating lunch.

  Someone shouted, “Hey, it’s Gunny Blount.”

  All the service members in the tent put down their plastic forks and knives, rose to their feet, and applauded.

  Blount’s eyes brimmed. He smiled, waved, felt unsure what to do next. He didn’t want the Marines to see him in any raw display of emotion, but he could not escape. The men surged around him. Lieutenant Colonel Loudon embraced him.

  “Thank you, sir,” Blount said. “Sorry, if anybody saw me outside. I couldn’t find my cover.”

  The Marines laughed. “Don’t worry about that, Gunny,” Loudon said. “I think you deserve a little bit of a break.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Two Frenchmen in flight suits greeted Blount. One of them shook his hand and said, “You must be Havoc Two Bravo.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blount said, “but now that I’m back, it’s Gunnery Sergeant Blount. Your voice sounds familiar. Were you Dagger One-Seven?”

  “Oui. Alain Chartier. This is my backseater, Sniper.”

  “I like that call sign,” Blount said.

  “All right, guys,” Loudon said. “Step aside and let the man eat.”

  “Semper fi,” someone called.

  Another round of cheers and applause.

  Blount found a tray and
moved along the serving line. Platters and skillets steamed, attended by TCNs—third-country nationals—in white uniforms. Blount picked up an apple and a banana, made a roast beef sandwich, took a plate of baked chicken and rice and a slice of apple pie. Slid open a cooler box and grabbed a can of iced tea. Found a seat beside Loudon.

  “So, what’s going on?” Blount asked. “Why’d they fly everybody in here?” Blount tore open a mustard packet, squeezed it onto his roast beef sandwich. Took a bite. Felt his salivary glands activate. Real food for the first time in days.

  “Can’t talk about it here,” Loudon said. “We’re briefing officers and NCOs later in the afternoon.”

  Blount chewed, swallowed, took a gulp of the tea. Not as good as Bernadette’s, a little too much lemon, but it would do. He forced himself to slow down, not to wolf his food like an animal, despite his hunger. He wouldn’t let an officer—or anyone else, for that matter—see him lose his military bearing.

  “What time, sir?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Gunny. You’ve done more than your share. We’re gonna let you go home on a nice long pass.”

  “Appreciate it, sir. I’ll take you up on that. But as long as I’m here, I might as well stay up on things. The Corps is still paying me.”

  “All right. Three o’clock. Secure briefing room. You know where that is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Right off the ops center. You’ll see the MPs outside.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  Loudon excused himself to go prepare for the briefing. Blount finished his sandwich and started in on the chicken and rice. From time to time a Marine would come by and offer congratulations or greetings, but for the most part they left him alone. They seemed to know he needed space to decompress, time to heal. And time to eat: He finished all the food he’d picked up, then went back for another slice of apple pie.

  After lunch, he found a tent where the Air Force comms people had set up computers for morale purposes. An Air Force staff sergeant created a password for him, and Blount sat down to e-mail his wife. He wrote: