But they had been ready, and were doing a fantastic job!
Satisfied nothing had changed, Margaret let herself relax for a minute, sniffing the aroma of a fresh pot of coffee from the galley nearby, which would have to wait.
The message Delta 1 had asked her to relay to CENTCOM a short while ago was still playing in her mind, the stuff of a good mystery. What on earth did they mean, “We polished off only ninety-eight bottles of beer?”
Margaret keyed the mike again, one more nagging thought in her head.
“Delta one, Crown.”
The voice over the weaker hand-held radio sounded very strained. She wondered what he looked like. Air Force people didn’t get to talk to Army Special Forces commando types very often. They sounded normal on the radio, but who could tell? That was a trained killer down there.
“Delta one here. Go, Crown.”
“Before I wave off the choppers entirely, you are confirming that there is no possibility of survivors at the crash site, affirmative?”
He seemed to hesitate, then the transmitter clicked on.
“We could find no one, Crown. We did look. We’re sure the flight crew was in the cockpit when it blew. If the bad guys weren’t approaching, it might be worth sending in someone to take a final look, but with bandits on the way, it’s not worth the risk. No one could have gotten out.”
She picked up the tie-line and briefed her counterpart at CENTCOM, who was back in her ear in half a minute with the decision. There would be no risking the helicopters at the crash site. When it was cool, they could go in with a special team and take a look. Not now.
But she was to dispatch one of the choppers to pick up two particular members of the Delta team. The rest would proceed on across the border on the ground.
“Crown, Bambi lead, we got their attention just north of the crash site, but they’ve barreled onto the site anyway and seem to be stopping there. We haven’t tried to take them out yet. It’s still dark out here, but we saw what looked like two tanks and several smaller vehicles.”
Porky 22 was only twenty miles out. Margaret turned her attention to laying out an initial target angle for a fiery little line in the sand south of the crash site. The Iraqi goons could poke around at the crash site all they wanted, as long as they didn’t come after the Delta team now eight miles south and hightailing it for the border.
Now to vector a chopper in and alert Delta 1. Some major named Moyer and one other individual CENTCOM had referred to as “the courier” were going for a ride.
In the central “war room” command post at CENTCOM in Riyadh, Army Brigadier General Herman Bullock disconnected from a secure radio link with his boss and, as per his instructions, picked up the satellite telephone link to the Pentagon. He was aware the information he was about to pass would make its way from the Pentagon to the White House situation room within minutes. Two containers of the biological agent were still at large, as was the scientist who had created them. Worse, the containers were reportedly headed for Baghdad. The response back home would not be pleasant.
31°57’ N, 41°55’ E, south central Iraq
Thursday, March 7, 1991—5:30 A.M. (0230 GMT)
The sounds of a high-speed pass in the darkness by a powerful jet, the rattle of an airborne machine gun, and the impact of several rockets made an already surreal dream seem even more bizarre. But it wasn’t a dream. Will Westerman regained consciousness slowly, his face full of sand, something very heavy pressing on his back. He struggled to turn his head, and succeeded at last. He tried to spit out the sand and grit in his mouth, realizing as he attempted to bring his hand to his face that his arms were pinned, his left one only lightly by his own body, his right arm by someone, or something, in the dark. Slowly he worked his left hand free and up to his face to clear the grit and debris from his eyes and nose.
Another sound forced its way into his consciousness, a raspy, insistent whisper somewhere to his left in the darkness, pleading for help. He remembered now almost tumbling down the crew entry ladder with the others, and he remembered running and a terrible explosion. But after that, things were fuzzy.
Who was that? And where the hell were they anyway?
The whisper sounded like Sandra Murray, the engineer, he decided. He listened some more. It was the engineer, a few feet off to his left. The whispering had started as he moved his hand to his face. The words made little sense at first, but he thought he caught something about being pinned.
He drifted back into a semi–dream state for a moment, the sharp edge of the pain in his head snapping him back once more. I should answer Sandra, but what in hell is pushing me down?
He began to probe then with his left hand and arm, unable to fathom what was on top of his body. There was some free space vertically around him to the left, but not much. He could see nothing in the pitch darkness at first, and it scared him profoundly, wondering if he’d been blinded. But no, there was some faint hint of light in the distance to the left.
Sandra was whispering again. He wanted to answer, but his mind was completely focused on figuring out what was happening, and why he couldn’t move freely.
His left hand probed down his left leg, finding the flight suit intact, the nerves in his leg confirming the touch of his hand. He wiggled his toes and moved his feet. It was difficult—whatever was on him had wedged his flight boots toes-down into the sand and was resting on the heels—but he at least wasn’t paralyzed. Thank God for that!
He probed upward with the palm of his left hand, puzzled at the slickness of the solid object pinning him. It was some sort of metal plate, very heavy, obviously, but not heavy enough to crush him. He had enough room to breathe in and out. Will tried to roll to his right to raise the slab, but nothing moved. It was going to be a major struggle to get out.
Slowly he became aware that there was another body beside him to the left. He moved his arm out laterally and felt the flight suit, and recognized a sticky dampness that had to be blood.
He should answer the whispering.
“Sandra? Is that you?” His voice came out as a hoarse croak.
The voice came back with renewed vigor, if still just a whisper.
“I’m over here! Thank … God you’re alive! I thought … I was alone.” She was trying to yell, but it was as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Is that you I’m touching?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then who’s next to me?”
“Bill. Bill Backus. I can’t … get him to respond. I think he’s dead … but I can’t see anything … and I can’t get my feet out.”
“Something very heavy is on top of me, holding me down. Same over there?”
“Yes. A big piece … a piece … of the airplane. I heard it coming … after the explosion. It … it hit … behind … fell over us. I thought … you were all dead!”
Doug Harris’s face loomed in his memory. Doug had been with them, of course. How could he forget? But where was he?
If Sandra and Bill were to his left, was that Doug on his right?
He struggled to turn his head back to the right. There was no easy way to do it, so he simply dragged his face back through the sand, trying to keep his eyes and mouth closed.
He could see nothing on the right, either. This couldn’t continue. Whatever this immense weight was, he had to get out from under it. He had to breathe!
He tried to lift it by arching his back, struggling to budge it, praying he would feel some give. Finally, with great effort, it shifted ever so slightly. Or was that only his imagination?
He had to know.
He struggled to bring his left forearm up and get his palm into the sand to provide enough leverage to lift, as if doing pushups. Finally, painfully, he succeeded, throwing all his strength into it.
At first nothing happened, and then there was an unmistakable shift.
So whatever this is, it isn’t immovable!
“I felt that! Keep pushing!” Sandra cried out, her voice
still hoarse.
Will didn’t answer. He could hear her, but his mouth was now facing the other way.
Will took as deep a breath as he could and fairly yelled at the body to his right, “Doug?”
Nothing. A wave of claustrophobia passed over him then, the temptation to scream and flail almost overwhelming. He willed himself sternly to calm down and analyze the situation, just as he had done in one of the survival schools when they tested how well aircrew members could put up with cramped spaces. His head hurt terribly, though, and with his feet pinned and the immense weight on his back, being logical and calm was an agonizing effort.
At last he sensed movement to his right. Doug—if it was Doug—was beginning to respond, so at least he was alive. But they had to get out from under whatever this was.
Another round of gunfire and explosions suddenly echoed through the metal that was lying on top of them. The sounds of a low-flying jet followed.
He raked his face back through the soft sand to the left side again, blowing and spitting sand, remembering all the cautions about germs in the desert. Not a hell of a lot he could do about that now.
“Sandra?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going on out there?”
“I don’t know. I think … our people left. I tried … to yell, but I couldn’t get any louder … than this, and … I guess … I guess they couldn’t find us.”
Will realized she was having to stop to breathe every few words.
“The firing started … a few minutes ago. I … don’t know who’s … firing at whom.”
“Sandra, we’ve got to lift this thing off us. Can you lift?”
“No … I’ve been trying … this thing’s crushing the … breath out of me.”
“Are you okay otherwise?”
“Yes. I can wiggle … my toes and fingers. I just … can’t … move around, or breathe.”
The overpowering scent in his nostrils began to register in his consciousness. It was the smell of jet fuel, along with a burned odor. Will dragged his face through the sand once more to try to rouse Doug, calling out to him, wondering how badly hurt he might be. The passing seconds of silence seemed endless, but eventually there was a moan and a small flicker of movement as Doug began to come around, very slowly at first, then snapping to consciousness with the same disorientation and whispered questions Will had asked.
Doug was, as far as they both could tell, unhurt, with all parts intact and functioning.
They began to work together then to lift the metal slab that covered them. It was huge and heavy, but by alternating, they both managed to get into the same push-up position, forcing the roof of their metal prison up a few inches while Sandra pulled her feet free and gained some breathing room. She began crawling forward on her stomach through the sand toward what seemed to be a strip of light, dragging an unconscious Bill Backus along with her a few inches at a time.
“Sir? Will?”
“Yeah?”
“How big do you think this thing is? The light seems to be another five feet away!”
“I don’t know. I don’t see anything behind us, but to my left, a long way off, I see light.”
“We may be under one of the wings.”
Bit by bit, alternating lifting and crawling and dragging Backus, they inched forward. First Will and Doug would lift and Sandra would pull herself forward a few feet, then she and Will would do the same for Doug, and so on. Inch by inch. Struggle by struggle, the goal exhaustingly distant and always receding.
It seemed a major accomplishment, then, when at long last Doug pushed one more time and suddenly felt something on his face, finding himself close enough to the edge of their prison to get a glimpse of the outside world. He could make out the first hint of dawn painting the horizon, and could feel the luxury of a small breeze leaking under the metallic edge, a feeling so grand he hated to report it to Will and Sandra until they could feel it too. It was the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, water at the end of a drought, and food at the end of a fast, all in one. But as he struggled for the self-discipline not to make a sudden, all-out attempt to push free at the expense of the others, something else reached his ears that was deliverance itself.
Voices! He had heard them, he was sure, along with the sound of vehicles somewhere to one side or behind them, noises of tank treads.
The APCs!
So they’re still looking for us! Thank God!
“Will! Our people are still out there. You hear them?”
The sounds seemed far away. Will strained to hear as Sandra wiggled closer to another sliver of light to their left.
“Should we start yell—”
“Wait! Wait a minute. Quiet!” Sandra cocked her ear and closed her eyes, trying to make out the words. She thought hard. There was no one on the attack team but Dr. Abbas who spoke Arabic, as far as she knew, and he had escaped. That wasn’t English!
Sandra turned her head back to the interior gloom, her whisper edged with alarm.
“Oh God, those aren’t our people! They’re not speaking English. What do we do?”
Doug’s heart sank as Will answered. “Shhh! Keep still and quiet.”
There were footsteps then, and more clanking noises getting louder fast as a tank approached from the left, roaring into prominence, stopping with a deafening squeal of metal on metal, its big engine idling, the fumes curling under the edge of the slab with sickening efficiency. Will toyed with the idea of calling for help and surrendering rather than run the risk of being crushed by a tank rolling over an apparently worthless slab of Yankee scrap metal. Backus probably needed medical help, but then Coalition forces weren’t far away, either. He tried to remember how far they’d made it to the south before the forced landing.
There were voices on the right as well, and the sound of various chunks of metal being thrown aside as the Iraqis combed through the wreckage. The voices were closer now, and he could feel Doug tense next to him in the gloom as a pair of combat boots came into view standing just inches from Doug’s face. If whoever that was looked in with a flashlight …
Gloved hands suddenly grabbed the edge of the metallic slab that was at once imprisoning and hiding them. They could feel the metal begin to shift and rise as the soldier grunted and strained, changed his footing, and pulled at it again. A cascade of additional light spilled under the slab, and for a moment Doug’s eyes met Sandra’s, exchanging a wordless prayer. Doug looked away, his eyes falling on the unconscious face of the other flight engineer, Bill Backus, whose eyes were closed. Blood caked the man’s forehead.
The owner of the hands, having received no help from his fellows, gave up all at once, letting the huge metal panel fall back with laughter and what probably passed for curses in Arabic while the three conscious crew members below felt the breath shoved out of their lungs, and Will’s back registered a stabbing pain of protest.
They waited an anxious half hour or more, until the last sounds of engines and voices had long since faded into the distance.
“What do you think, Will? Coast clear?” Will’s mind had drifted elsewhere, and Doug’s whisper made him jump. He had been reliving the mission, trying to find the fatal flaw in planning. The road they had used for a runway was narrow, but there were so-called highway airstrips all over Iraq. It was supposed to have had only hard-packed shoulders.
“Will.”
“What?”
“You ready to get out of here?”
“Hell, yes!”
Their efforts took on a shared, fierce determination then, and within ten minutes, with Sandra and Will making one final, Herculean effort to raise it and hold, Doug was finally able to squeeze out, ripping his flight suit in the process. Instantly he grabbed the first piece of angular metal he could find and shoved it under the edge to maintain the height they had achieved. He found more, they lifted further, and bit by bit they shored up a gap of eighteen inches between the sand and the huge metal slab. Sandra emerged then, Doug helping h
er pull Bill Backus free as Will pushed from within.
At last Will, too, rolled into the clear, utterly exhausted. He lay there a few seconds before struggling to his feet, then turned back to the west, expecting to see the burned-out hulk of their C-141.
Instead, only scrap metal and the remains of the T-tail were visible in the cold predawn light.
“Jesus Christ. There’s nothing left!”
Doug looked up, preoccupied with the structure that had imprisoned them, a structure that had formed the upper part of the left wing. It was at least fifty feet wide at one end, and at the point where they had been pushed to the ground beneath it, about thirty feet in width.
“Will, you know what this is?”
“What?”
“We were under the top of number-two fuel tank. See the boost pump inspection plate here? The damn thing came down on us, but we were in the middle. It probably weighs two thousand pounds.”
Sandra got to her feet after checking Bill Backus over and finding him still unconscious, but breathing.
The three of them stood then for a minute, brushing off the coating of sand, a light breeze blowing in their faces. The overcast of a few hours back was now giving way to partly cloudy skies, and the multitude of tread and tire marks heading south from the final resting place of their aircraft were now all too visible.
Will broke the silence. “The Iraqis couldn’t have made all those tracks. That has to be our force moving south.”
Doug nodded, all their eyes following the same escape path to the horizon, which was empty.
And the reality sank in at last that they had been left for dead.
For the longest time, it seemed to Sandra, no one spoke.
They looked at each other in shock, each with the same thought. Will voiced it aloud.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
Scorpion Strike Page 17
