“Minute out!” the pilot shouted. “Doesn’t look hot; we circle while the others touch down first.”
John strained up to try to catch a glimpse. The mountain filled the windscreen before them, the pilot pitching up slightly to clear space beneath him for the Apaches that were already skimming along the face of the ridgeline. There was a paved runway at the base of the ridgeline, John noting that it had been cleared of snow. Between the airfield and the ridge, there were a half a dozen helo pads, cleared and marked as well. A Black Hawk rested on one of the pads.
So far, no shots were fired. The Apaches zoomed back and forth along the face of the mountain as the chopper with Bob in it skimmed in low, flared up, and touched down on one of the pads. Bob was the first one out before it had even settled down, followed by troopers with weapons raised.
Another came in, and then a third while a couple of hundred feet up, the Black Hawk that John was in turned in sharp sixty-degree banks, circling about. Lee, absolutely wired up, for once did not complain while Forrest, chuckling softly, hung on to his safety harness with one hand, M4 strapped across his chest.
“Shit, we’ve got incoming!” the pilot shouted, and he snapped the Black Hawk over into an opposite turn. For a few seconds, it looked to John as if he was about to go straight into the mountain before pulling around.
John caught a glimpse down and saw that a firefight was opening up, tracers arcing back and forth between where the Black Hawks were landing and bunkers set to either side of what appeared to be a massive steel door at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. What appeared to be orange tennis balls snapped past the Black Hawk’s windshield, the pilot cursing and going into sharp spiraling evasive turns.
“I’m putting us down before we get hit up here!” the pilot shouted, and he nosed nearly straight down. The helicopter pads were now all occupied by the Black Hawks, John’s pilot opting for an access road, plowed as well, that circled round the pads. He flared up sharply, the medic that was flying with them reaching up to slide a side door open. Even before touching down, he was shouting for them to get out, stay low, and hit the ground.
Forrest was the first up and in spite of his old war injuries was out the door. He ran half a dozen feet and flung himself to the ground, M4 up and ready to engage.
John had not done anything like this in more than twenty years, but training did kick in, as it did for Malady and even Maury, who leaped out and sprawled into the snow alongside Forrest. John looked back and saw Lee standing in the open doorway, Grace behind him.
“Lee, Grace, get out!” John shouted, and at that instant, a burst of shots laced down the side of the helicopter, shattering its forward windshield, hitting the pilot, and then stitching across Lee. He collapsed back into the Black Hawk, the long burst raking down the length of the helicopter, tearing across the turbine housings, and from there into the tail rotor, which disintegrated into deadly shards arcing out in every direction.
Smoke billowed out between the still-rotating rotor blades. John got to his feet and ran back even as the medic was grabbing hold of Lee, pulling him feet first out of the crippled bird. There was blood covering Grace’s face, but she was up, helping to push Lee out, John grabbing hold of his friend’s legs and pulling him to safety.
His friend was wide-eyed and gasping. It looked as if his vest had taken a shot, and for a few seconds, John thought he had just been stunned by the blow, turning to Grace and shouting at her if she was wounded.
“I don’t think I’m hit!” she cried. He then looked back at Lee, who at that instant started to cough up blood.
The medic frantically tore the Kevlar jacket open, cursing. There was an entry wound that had punched through his jacket just above his heart. The medic rolled Lee up onto his side, slipped his hand down the back, and came up with a bloody hand.
“Damn it!” the medic cried, and he looked at Grace, who had been standing behind Lee in the helicopter, her face splattered with blood.
“You hit?”
“No, not sure … no.”
“Then put pressure on Lee’s wound!” the medic shouted, pushing down hard with his own hands first and then grabbing Grace’s hand and guiding her to take over. He looked back to the front of the chopper. The pilot was staggering out, arm drenched with blood, copilot running around the front of the Black Hawk to help him get clear. The medic returned his focus to Lee.
John knelt beside Lee, not sure what to do other than hold his old friend’s hand. The medic was cutting through Lee’s parka and shirt underneath, stabbing the exposed arm with a syrette of morphine, and seconds later the look of panic in Lee’s eyes cleared a bit while the medic worked frantically to set up a bag of plasma.
“What’s his name?” the medic cried, looking over at John.
“Lee Robinson.”
The medic leaned down close to Lee’s face. “Lee, you are going to make it, but you’ve got to stay with me. I’ve got to keep you breathing, I’m going to work a breathing and suction tube down you; don’t panic. You got that? Stay with me. I’m going to get you through this!”
Lee looked around wide-eyed, gaze resting on John. “Gettysburg. Good place to die, my friend.”
“You’re not dying, Lee!” John cried.
Lee coughed up more blood. “Thought we’d share being grandfathers together. Tell them I love them.”
He started to convulse. The medic gave up on the breathing tube for a moment, pulling Grace’s bloody hands aside and actually slipping a couple of fingers into the entry wound.
“Jesus God,” the medic whispered softly, and then he leaned back, reached into the tote bag dangling from his shoulder, pulled it open, and drew out an emergency surgical pack.
“I’ve got to try to go in,” the medic announced, “stop the bleeding there.”
He unrolled the pack beside Lee and then drew out another morphine syrette and stuck it into Lee’s arm.
John looked at him, questioning this decision.
“I’ve got to all but knock him out,” the medic snapped before John could even ask.
All this time, gunfire was snapping around them, several shots stitching up the snow within feet of where the medic was working. He looked back over his shoulder. “Damn you, you sons of bitches, can’t you see I’m a damn medic?” he cried.
Lee was still frothing up blood. His lungs were clogging with aspirated blood, the medic whispering for Grace to cover her friend’s eyes and keep reassuring him.
She began to sob as she leaned over him and started to whisper calming words that he would make it.
Another convulsion tore through Lee’s body, blood spraying up out of his mouth in a torrent, and then he just started to relax.
The medic leaned back and said nothing, lowering his head.
Lee looked up at John and actually appeared to smile. “Gettysburg. Bury me here, John.” And then he was gone.
John could only kneel beside his friend of so many years, holding his hand, finger resting on his pulse, feeling the last faint beat, and he was gone. All he could do was kneel over, embrace his friend … and cry.
“Matherson!”
He looked up. It was Sergeant Major Bentley gesturing for him to come forward.
John ignored him for the moment, looking back to the medic.
“It was .50 caliber most likely. Kevlar won’t stop that. Felt like his aorta was nicked, pulmonary arteries shot up as well.” He stared at Lee for a moment and then turned to look at the pilot, who was crouched down next to him, blood pouring down his arm.
“Let’s take care of that,” the medic said, and he turned away as if Lee had never existed.
“Damn it, Matherson, on me!” Again it was Bentley. John forced himself to stand up and then paused, leaned back over, and closed his friend’s eyes. Grace was kneeling by the body, crying.
“Grace, stay here with the medic. You can help him.”
“I’m going with you,” she snapped sharply.
“Damn it, I�
��m not losing you too, Grace. Now stay here with the medic. He needs you more than I do.”
“Stay here, Grace; I need you,” the medic ordered even as he tore away the sleeve of the wounded pilot to reveal arterial blood pulsing out.
“Matherson, damn it, the general wants you. Move it!”
John looked back to where Bentley was standing out in the open, arms on hips, as if oblivious to the firefight that was going on.
John spared one last glance for his fallen friend, stifled back his emotions, and crouching low started toward Bentley.
Maury, Forrest, and Malady, who had been deployed forward, got up to join him.
“Lee?” Maury asked.
“Gone,” was all he could choke out.
A loud tearing sound, almost like that of a bedsheet being ripped in half, echoed against the face of the ridge. One of the Apaches, angled down, was at a hover fifty feet up, pouring in a stream of 30mm shells across the face of the huge steel doors, then turning its fire into a bunker on one flank for several seconds, pivoting, delivering the same deadly blow to the second bunker on the other side of the door. Its tracer rounds made its efforts look like a garden hose of liquid fire pouring down from an angry heaven. A second Apache was swinging back and forth, sweeping the ground above the door with the same river of death. There was a secondary explosion from what must have been a concealed bunker positioned partway up the steep slope.
John came up to Bentley, who without comment turned, set off at a slow jog, and led them to where General Scales was down on one knee, snapping out commands into a handheld radio.
“That’s it, you’ve torn the shit out of them!” he cried. “We take one more shot. Don’t wait for me. Cut loose again!”
The two Apaches broke away from their attacks, turned, and with rotors thumping loudly pivoted and climbed up.
Bob stood, went over to a Black Hawk, and held up his hand, and the pilot offered him a microphone linked to a loudspeaker strapped to the helicopter.
“That’s it!” Bob shouted. “We didn’t want a fight. You opened fire first. You saw what you got. Lay down your arms, come out hands over your heads, and I promise safe surrender. You’ve got thirty seconds, or some Hellfires will come in next.”
The bunker to the left flank of the steel door let go with a secondary explosion, ammunition within lighting off like a long string of firecrackers, men around Bob ducking. He remained standing.
“Fifteen seconds or you’ll really get a taste of hell.”
Three men came staggering out of the second bunker, hands up, one of them obviously burned, smoke swirling up from his scorched uniform.
“Medic forward!” Bob shouted. “Surrender; we’ll take care of the wounded. This is General Bob Scales, Eastern Command. I am giving you a direct order that will save your lives. Now give it up.”
One of Bob’s medics raced forward and actually knocked the man in the smoldering uniform down, rolling him back and forth in the snow and shouting for one of the other surrendering men to help him. The sight of this finally broke the standoff at last.
More men and women began to emerge from concealment, many of them wounded.
“That’s it! Keep coming forward!” Bob shouted. “All medics up front and center. Treatment center on me. Move it!”
The Apaches continued to circle overhead like birds of prey eager to strike. Looking up, Bob picked the transmission mike up, clicked it, and passed the order for them to climb a bit higher, hover, and hold fire unless directly ordered to attack.
He let the mike drop, grimly surveying those coming in, and then looked over at John. “Thank God you’re okay,” he said. “I looked back when your bird was hit; I thought it was you in the doorway.”
“It was my friend Lee,” John replied, still struggling with emotion.
Bob looked at him questioningly.
“He’s dead.”
Muttering a curse, Bob turned away. “Damn them, damn them. There was no need for this. I had to come in sharp and fast, not just go up to the gate, knock politely, and ask to please come in. But it didn’t have to be this way. Damn fools should have seen we had the firepower edge.”
Several dozen surrendering were now coming forward, the majority injured in some way. A captain, dragging a wounded leg, approached Bob and stopped half a dozen feet away, and just glared at him. “Who the hell are you?” the captain snapped.
“First off, I am your superior officer, and you will salute before addressing me,” Bob snapped.
The captain glared at him and those around him, attention focusing on John and his people for a moment, who, other than their flak jackets and helmets, were decidedly unmilitary.
“And this rabble?”
Sergeant Bentley stepped forward and got within inches of the captain’s face. “You will address the general as sir, you son of a bitch, and salute a superior officer. Now close your damn yap and answer when spoken to.”
The captain began to reply, and Bentley leaned in almost nose-to-nose, exactly like a professional DI intimidating a jerk of a recruit who, if behind the barracks and out of sight, would get his butt kicked.
The captain relented, stepping backward a few paces and to one side, turned his focus toward the general, and finally offered a salute.
“Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force.”
Bob barely returned the salute. “Your unit?”
“223rd Security Battalion.”
“Oh, Christ, air force security,” one of the men behind Bob growled. “No wonder.”
Bob did not look back at whoever spoke out with disdain. “Why did you fire on us, Captain?” Bob snapped.
“Sir, our standing orders are anyone enters this compound, we shoot first and ask questions later.”
Bob looked around at the carnage. Lee was not the only casualty on their side. Several men near Bob were down. Dead and wounded were being carried in where one of the medics was shouting that he was setting up a clearing area, literally next to the command Black Hawk. The ship John was in was beginning to burn, and no one was bothering to try to suppress it.
“Now listen to my orders,” Bob snapped at the captain. “That steel door over there, open it now.”
The captain stiffened and shook his head. “My name is Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force, serial number—”
Bob stepped closer. “Cut the bullshit, Captain. Open the damn door.”
“Sir, what you are ordering is in direct contradiction to my orders.”
“From where?”
“Sir, I do not have to answer that question.”
“Bluemont?” Bob shouted and John saw a flicker in the captain’s eyes, and he knew Bob saw it as well.
Bob shoved past the captain and strode the hundred yards to the door, ducking down for a moment as more munitions from one of the bunkers ignited like a Fourth of July display. A dozen of Bob’s troopers and John and his friends fell in behind him. As they approached the vast steel door, they could see it looked almost like a safe, its face pockmarked from the strafing runs by the Apaches that still circled overhead.
“Captain, open that door!” Bob said, looking back at Hanson, whom Bentley was shoving along behind them.
“I can’t.”
‘What do you mean you can’t?”
“The control mechanism was inside the bunker you just destroyed.” There was an edge of triumphant sarcasm to his voice.
John looked at the captain with unconcealed hatred. In a world of starvation, those like Hanson stood out. He was full fleshed, actually overweight, face round and florid, obviously spending more time sitting in a comfortable office, three good meals a day, and not out scrounging for enough calories to struggle through one more day.
“Bullshit,” Bob snapped. “There’s always a backup. Something like this, no idiot built it with only one way to open the door. You’ve got a backup.”
“My name is Captain Dean Hanson—”
The captain’s words were cut short by a
scream of panic as he ducked down, falling to his knees, Sergeant Bentley, with an old-style 1911 .45 semiauto standing over him, having discharged the weapon only inches from his head.
“Next one will be to the head in thirty seconds if you don’t answer the general,” Bentley said.
The captain looked up at Bentley, obviously terrified, and then looked to Bob.
And then there was actually a bit of a smile. “Screw you. I know you. You’d never execute one of your own,” he snapped, but his voice was quavering.
Bob glared at him, all around them silent. John took it all in and knew the captain was right. Bob was trying to bluff him, and the captain knew it. Though they had come all this way, that steel barrier blocked them from the answer they sought.
There was only one way out, John realized. He stepped forward and went up to Bentley.
“Give me that pistol!” he snapped.
Bentley looked back to his general, who gave a subtle nod of agreement.
John took the pistol, stepped in front of Hanson, and leveled the weapon straight at his forehead. “Now listen very carefully, you son of a bitch,” John said, his voice icy cold. “My name is John Matherson. For a year, I was military commander of my community down in the mountains of North Carolina. Do you hear me, Dean?”
There was no response.
“I am not part of General Scales’s command. I’m here as a witness to whatever is behind that door. Less than a week after the shit hit the fan and everything went down, I put a bullet into the head of a thieving drug addict in a public execution. Do you hear me?”
Again no response, but he could see the man was looking up at him wide-eyed.
“I’ve personally executed dozens more since then without hesitation. Ten minutes ago, one of your bastards killed one of my closest friends; the blood on me is his blood. Do you read me?”
There was a faint nod.
“I’ve extended your life by two minutes. Maybe the general would not order you shot, but by heaven, I have no such compunctions. I’m giving you thirty seconds to do as the general ordered. If you do not, I will blow your frigging head off and not hesitate. At this moment, I might blow it off anyhow as payback for my friend even after you answer, but your odds are better if you answer. After I shoot you, I’ll single out another and another of the prisoners until someone finally gives the general the answer he wants. Now, Captain Hanson, do you read me?”
The Final Day Page 30
