Africa jtf-4

by David E. Meadows

  “A long stick,” Rockdale offered. “That’s what we need. Something—” He stopped, bent down, and started shoving the bushes apart.

  “To tie a survival knife on the end of it, and we can use it—” MacGammon started looking in the other direction.

  “Like we use a tree trimmer back home.” Rockdale retraced his steps toward the nearest tree.

  Five minutes later Rockdale held up a long, crooked limb nearly twenty feet long. “I’ve got one!” he shouted.

  MacGammon dashed through the bushes until he reached Rockdale. Rockdale held the limb out. “What’d you think?”

  “It would never sell at Home Depot,” MacGammon replied, reaching out and taking the limb. “But, you’re right,” he said with a smile. “It’ll suit our purpose.”

  Rockdale dropped to his knees and pulled his survival knife out. He aligned it alongside the narrow end of the limb. “Here, hold it while I tie it.”

  With MacGammon holding the knife steady, Rockdale wrapped cord around the handle, binding it to the limb.

  “It’s not going to be long enough, you know?”

  “I know,” Rockdale answered. He looked at the tree. “I think one of us is going to have to climb the tree and shimmy out close enough to the parachute to cut the lines.”

  “Let me see if I have this right. One of us is going to climb the tree and slide out there on one of those limbs so we can cut him free.”

  Rockdale stood and hefted the makeshift tree trimmer. He pushed it up and down a few times.

  “Rocky, that someone has to be me. I’m the lightest of us two.”

  Rockdale stopped hoisting the tree trimmer and looked at MacGammon. “No, I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

  “Man, you’re so full of bullshit, you’re eyes are brown. Ain’t no way you’re gonna climb that tree. It wasn’t four hours ago, you were coasting in and out of dreamland. Be just my luck to let you do this and I find myself squatting here going ‘tsk tsk’ while looking at what used to be you, splattered all over the ground, and Carson still up there playing swingman.” MacGammon reached over and jerked the tree trimmer from Rockdale. “I’m the only goddamn healthy one of us,” he said and then quickly mumbled, “And I’m not feeling too good myself.”

  Rockdale reached over and wrapped a hand around the makeshift trimmer. MacGammon jerked it. “No!” Rockdale held his hand out, motioning downward. “You can do it, Mac. I’m not trying to take it away from you, but you can’t climb the tree and hold onto this thing at the same time. I’ll stand—”

  “See! I told you so. I knew you wanted me to go.” MacGammon grinned. He reached over and pushed Rockdale’s mouth closed. “Shut your mouth before one of those African flies that put you asleep flies in it.”

  “But—”

  “I’m just kidding, Rocky. It only makes sense for me to go.” MacGammon let go of the trimmer, turned, and put his hands on his hips. He scrutinized the tree, his eyes traveling upward as if mapping out his climb.

  “I can hoist you to that low limb.”

  “You’re going to have to. Otherwise, I’m going to have to make like one of those cartoon characters and run up the side of it. I don’t think I can do that.”

  The two stood at the base of the tree. Rockdale watched quietly as MacGammon took his survival vest off, folding it beside the tree. Rockdale noticed the flight suit was a darker, wetter green where the survival vest had been.

  MacGammon nodded. “Don’t forget where we left our helmets. We’ll need them tonight.”

  MacGammon took his gloves off and tucked them into the leg pockets of his flight suit. “Can climb better without them on.”

  “You ready?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Rockdale cupped his hands, the fingers interlaced. Just as MacGammon stuck his left foot into the hand cradle, moans brought them up short. MacGammon brought his foot down and both men looked, staring quietly at Carson. The swaying airman’s head came up slowly. The visor was still down on the dangling sailor’s helmet, hiding the face from the nose up.

  “Carson! Carson! You okay?” Rockdale shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth. Moans answered him.

  “Stetson! You son of a bitch! Wake up and answer us! If you can’t answer us, then at least unlatch your chest strap.”

  Carson’s head rose and turned several times. It seemed to wobble on his neck. Rockdale pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead and face. Carson must have hit his head coming through the trees. For him to be out this long, his concussion had to be worse than the one he suffered falling out of the tree.

  Rockdale and MacGammon waved their arms over their heads, both shouting at Carson, “Over here. We’re over here.”

  Carson’s head swiveled until he looked in their direction. Rockdale saw Carson’s lips moving, but neither man could hear what he was saying. “You hear anything?”

  “His lips are moving.”

  “Listen.”

  Rockdale shut his eyes, concentrating on listening.

  “We should move closer.”

  Rockdale raised his hand, motioning for MacGammon to be quiet.

  Carson was saying something. He could barely hear the man. He needed to be closer, but Rockdale was afraid if he took the time to move, Carson might lapse back into unconsciousness. Whatever the man was saying, it was one word, and Carson was repeating the same word over and over.

  “What’s he saying?” MacGammon asked.

  “I’m not sure. It sounds like ‘wa.’”

  “Water! That’s what he’s saying. Stetson wants water.” MacGammon cupped his hands to his lips. “Stetson, you bastard. We’re coming. You just hang in there, buddy.” He turned to Rockdale. “Okay, give me a hand.

  A moment later, the smaller man hung by his arms from the lowest limb. MacGammon swung his legs, bringing them up and through his arms. His legs wrapped across the top of the limb. A second more, and he was lying prone on top of the limb.

  “Hand me the cutter.”

  Rockdale lifted the makeshift cutter and held it until MacGammon grabbed it and pulled it up. “I’m going to go stand near Stetson.”

  “Yeah, you go do that, but when I cut him down, don’t try to catch him or do anything heroic.”

  Rockdale was surprised. He had thought of grabbing Carson when he was cut free, knowing it would knock him down, but that it might also save his buddy from any further injuries. He opened his mouth to say something.

  “Don’t even try to deny it, Rocky. You’re the hero type; not the survival type.” MacGammon pushed himself up into a near-squatting position, his body pointing away from the base of the tree. “This may be a jungle, but there’s not much difference between the rules for this jungle and the rules of the jungle in Newark, where I grew up.”

  “Newark? Isn’t that in Georgia?”

  “‘Newark? Isn’t that in Georgia,’” MacGammon mimiced. “Remind me to kick your ass when I get back down.” He stood up and grabbed the tree limb above him. “On second thought, Rocky, the way you’re going, just keep a record of how many times I’m gonna have to kick it. I’m losing track.”

  Rockdale watched as MacGammon worked his way along the second limb. After MacGammon climbed several more limbs, the man started easing his way out toward Carson. Rockdale turned and made his way toward where Carson would fall when MacGammon cut him free. He wished he’d used MacGammon’s survival knife. Here he was forcing himself through intertwined brambles of vines, limbs, and leaves with his hands, while above him MacGammon climbed toward Carson with both knives.

  “Are you near him yet?”

  Rockdale stopped and looked up. He didn’t see MacGammon.

  “Up here, Rocky. You blind or something?”

  A motion caught his attention. There was MacGammon astraddle a small limb. The parachute was only a few feet from MacGammon.

  “I see you. I’m nearly there.”

  “Take your time.” MacGammon pulled the cutter forward
and pushed it toward the nylon lines running from the parachute to the harness holding Carson.

  “He should be down by the time you get to where he’s going to fall.”

  “Wait a minute! Let me get there!”

  “Ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell, I’m going to do that. I told you, don’t do anything heroic. You can’t catch him—”

  Rockdale cupped his hands to shout. MacGammon had the knife—his knife—sawing back and forth against a tangle of nylon lines. “Wait! Wait!”

  “Rocky, I know you better than you know yourself. We just need him down. The fall ain’t gonna kill him. You can’t see what I can up here. The bushes are gonna break his fall. Worse that could happen is he gets a few bruises — a cut or two maybe — and some scratches.”

  Rockdale turned and started hurrying through the bushes. Pushing the limbs apart and ignoring the blows as they whipped back against him. He had to reach Carson’s position before MacGammon cut him down. He might be unable to see what Mac could way up there on the limb, but down here, he knew those bushes weren’t going to break his fall. If anything, they’d be like spears cutting into and through Carson.

  “Mac, don’t cut him down yet. We don’t want him to die when he falls.”

  MacGammon quit his cutting. “Rocky, you bleeding-heart liberal asshole. He ain’t gonna die. He will die if I don’t cut him down.” MacGammon raised the cutter again and returned to his sawing.

  Rockdale glanced every few seconds to see how MacGammon was doing. He had to get there before the man fell. Carson wasn’t dead yet, and he’d be damned if he stood by and watched MacGammon kill him because Mac wouldn’t listen to him. It might be the only way to get the man down, but it was useless if it killed him at the same time. Hi, Stetson. You’re down, but you’re dead. Better luck next time.

  A sharp twang caused Rockdale to slow for a moment and look up at Carson.

  “Hey, did you hear that?” MacGammon asked. “He’s half-way down. Hey, Stetson, you bastard. You better bend those knees.”

  Rockdale leaned back slightly so he could see MacGammon. What he saw was Carson spinning around slowly, clockwise. Nylon cords holding the right side of the harness were drooped over the injured man. Only the left nylon straps held Carson to the parachute.

  “Rocky, a couple of more cuts and he’s gonna be one grateful son of a bitch.”

  Rockdale pushed aside the bushes, and ignoring the occasional thorns and backswings from the limbs, the aircrewman shoved and fought his way through the heavy growth. Another twang drew his attention.

  “One more to go, and he’s on a fast track down!”

  MacGammon sounded almost giddy as if looking forward to Carson’s fall with anticipation. Rockdale’s lungs ached from the exertion, but he couldn’t stop. If he wasn’t there to soften Carson’s fall, the man could die.

  “Nearly there!”

  Suddenly, he burst through a tangled row to find himself directly beneath Carson. A louder twang filled the jungle quiet.

  “Anchors aweigh!”

  Rockdale ran beneath the dangling Carson, trying to position himself where he could cushion his shipmate’s fall. As he stepped left, the knife cut forward, catching the strap and pushing it farther to the right at the same moment that the blade finished its job. Rockdale turned quickly, looking up as Carson came free from twenty feet above him, hurtling toward the ground, feet first. Though he had the best of intentions, Rockdale startled himself as he jumped back, letting Carson tumble feet-first into the bushes only a few feet from where he stood. The man’s head came back, his mouth opened, and Carson’s screams filled the jungle as he disappeared into the bushes.

  * * *

  Holman heard the screen door slam shut but didn’t turn to see who it was. He knew and waited until Upmann walked up beside him. “Sounds to me like this African National Army isn’t a U.S. friend as they say,” Holman said, reaching in his pocket for a Cubana.

  “Could have been Abu Alhaul and his group. Mary said they knew for sure they had SAMs, but it was only speculation about the ANA having them.”

  Holman shrugged. “Seen one terrorist bunch, you’ve seen them all. Kill as many innocent people as you can and call them the enemy. Never face true warriors on the battlefield. Hide behind nationalism, religion, or just pure meanness. If ever there was an evil in this world, it’s the modern terrorist with his penchant to hide murder, mayhem, and torture under some sort of acceptable banner. Kill the lot of them, I say.”

  “Here comes our Air Force colonel,” Upmann said, pointing to Holman’s left.

  Holman let out a deep sigh. “Now, be nice, Leo.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  The colonel saluted as he approached the two men. “Jeff, how does it look?” Admiral Holman asked, returning the salute.

  “We’ll have two helicopters ready for liftoff at first light, Admiral.” The colonel pointed at the horizon. “We won’t have the helicopters reconfigured from special ops to search-and-rescue for another couple of hours. Even so, Admiral, wouldn’t be enough daylight left for us to make it there and back before nightfall.”

  “I guess I’m kind of thick, Colonel,” Leo Upmann said. “I don’t understand why you can just take off and use the helicopters as they’re currently configured.”

  Hightower smiled. “It’s a matter of Air Force policy, Captain. When dealing with Special Forces types, we don’t have to have the same equipment nor do we have the same worries.” He held his right hand up and made a downward motion with it. “We just fly right in, hover for a moment, and they jump out. How they get back is usually their worry.” Hightower clasped his hands behind his back and rolled back and forth on his heels as he continued, “For a SAR mission, we assume the worse, and that is the survivors won’t be able to help themselves, and we won’t be able to land. We’ll have to blast through the jungle canopy with a specially designed seat and hoist them out one at a time. If necessary, we’ll drop a heavy wire-mesh stretcher, strap the injured into it and hoist him or her up through the same opening.”

  “You have a take-off time yet?” Holman interrupted.

  The roar of an aircraft touching down, tires squealing as they slammed against the runway, brought the conversation to a halt.

  “Damn,” Holman said. “Does that pilot want to land the aircraft or submerge it?”

  “That would be our skipper,” a voice behind the three men offered. “Wasn’t due until tomorrow, but the Ranger was already loaded so he took off this morning. He’s uncanny about how—”

  Holman turned. Lieutenant Commander Peeters, the mission commander of the damaged Ranger 20, stood there. “Didn’t hear you come up, Commander.”

  “Sorry, Admiral.” He pointed at the EP-3E rolling down the runway, puffs of smoke coming from the tires where the aircraft brakes worked to slow the four-engine turboprop airplane. “When Craz— Sorry, when Commander Greensburg lands an aircraft, he expects that aircraft to stay on the ground.”

  Holman turned back to the runway, watching the aircraft continue down it toward the ramp. “Well, it definitely will stay on the runway if he keeps landing it like that. It’ll stay on the runway, it’ll stay on the tarmac, and it’ll stay in the hanger until it’s repaired.”

  “Admiral, I’m on my way to the tower to file our flight plan for tomorrow morning,” Colonel Jeff Hightower said. “We intend an o-four-hundred show for an o-six-hundred launch. Should be a quick in and out, if they’ve found the missing aircrewman, and he’s able to ride out himself.”

  “One thing we don’t know, Colonel,” Peeters offered. “We don’t know if our chief has hooked up with the three aircrewmen who bailed out. The chief is the one who was told to work his way to the sailors. Hopefully, he’s done that. If not, then there’s a chance you may have to do a double retrieval.”

  Hightower reached up, pulled his light-blue hat off, and ran the back of his flight-suit sleeve across his forehead. He nodded. “Roger, Commander. I understand one of you
r chiefs bailed out after you ceased the bailout,” Hightower said, his statement more of a question.

  Peeters nodded. “That’s true. Surprised all of us. By the time we realized the engine fire was under control, we had three out the door. The chief was reluctant to let them go alone.” Holman saw Peeters eyes gaze off toward the horizon. “He is a very brave man. I doubt I could or would have done what the chief did.”

  Hightower smiled. “I don’t know whether I should admire the man, berate him, or write him up for disobeying an order.”

  Holman removed the cigar from between his lips. “You have to admire him for what he did. Heart’s in the right place and all that, though you are right. He should never have bailed out.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Admiral. But because of this brave chief petty officer, we may have to make two rescue retrievals instead of one. Plus, with the chief on the move, if he isn’t with the three sailors who were told to remain where they are, we may have to set up a search pattern and start hunting for him.”

  Holman nodded. “I know. It may make your mission a little more complicated. But in this day and age of international terrorism, you want to admire something such as this for its heroism even as you question why in the hell he did it in the first place.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “I think I’ll admire him for a while,” he said softly, smoke filtering out with the words.

  “Chief Razi is one of our best,” Peeters offered.

  The four turboprops of the taxiing EP-3E drowned out any reply. Colonel Jeff Hightower saluted and sauntered off toward the tower.

  Holman dropped the cigar onto the damp ground and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. Thoughts whirled through his mind about this upcoming rescue operation. He should have asked Hightower how much experience the man’s crew had in SAR missions, but a full Air Force colonel would be well trained. The Air Force left little to chance when it came to safety. A simple in-and-out rescue is never that. If you’re going to bring someone out, and you have to call it a rescue, then it is never simple. Special Forces missions on the other hand were planned well in advance, and everyone knew his mission and where to be for pickup. Search-and-rescue missions never have advanced planning. They were by-the-seat operations designed to get the fallen combatants out of the war zone and off to wherever medical attention could be provided. He slapped a mosquito on his neck. He hoped the worst the four endured was a little loss of blood to the mosquitoes.