Kurt heard the driver say something into his radio, and then they were moving, a rumbling, jarring trip with all the finesse of a stagecoachon a Shaker table, but it was the most fabulous vehicle Kurt had ever seen. Keep your Cadillacs and Mercedes with their cushy rides and fancy accountrements. This was a vehicle built by and for warriors,and it took people into harm’s way in defense of causes larger than any individual occupant. It smelled of oil and fuel, of blood and gunpowder, and of sweat and fear and courage. Illuminated by the light of a single bulb, the simplicity of the design seemed a stark contrastto the complexity of the men it carried, and from the very first moments after the APC was buttoned up, Kurt knew that this was a moment that would forever change his life. It would alter the very foundation of who he was.
“Thank you, guys,” he said to the other occupants. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Chris said with a scowl. “We’re not out of the shit yet.”
Kurt understood. He had no idea where they were headed, but he knew where they were, and it was a long ride on a normal day to the nearest military facility. With the world at war, he could only imagine how long it would take, and all of them could only imagine what kind of complications they would face on the way.
The .45 was bothering Kurt, stuck the way it was in the waistband of his trousers, and once they were moving, the discomfort only becameworse. He lifted his shirt and removed the weapon, consciously noting for the first time that the thing was still cocked. He vaguely rememberedBrian mentioning something about that when he handed him the gun, but now, inside the vehicle, it seemed like an unnecessary risk. Conscious of the slipperiness of his hands, Kurt vigorously wiped his palms on his thighs, removing as much of the blood and sweat as he could, then carefully inserted his thumb between the hammer and the firing pin and pulled the trigger. He felt the click and eased the hammer down.
When he looked up again, he noticed that all eyes were focused on him. “What?”
“There’s a safer way to do that,” Chris said.
“Don’t need to be shot again,” Jim added.
Kurt felt himself blush. He was an idiot. He should have dropped the magazine out of the grip and then jacked the seated round out of the chamber. He could almost hear his drill instructor’s voice.
He started to apologize when Paul made that odd breathing sound again. It was hard to tell in the yellow light of the troop compartment, but to Kurt’s eye, he seemed to be getting worse. He slid down to the floor and grabbed the wounded commando by the bandoliers of shotgunshells slung over his shoulders. “Paul? Paul! Hang in there. Hang in there. We’re almost there.”
But he wasn’t ready to die. Apparently, he’d just forgotten to breathe, and something about the jostling reignited the spark. He made a snoringsound as his lungs expanded again.
Kurt felt the heat of Jim’s glare and he turned to assure him. “I think he’s okay.”
The soldier on the bench nodded. “Paul’s tough,” he said.
Kurt was done sitting on the bench himself. He’d been given one job to do this night—to see to Paul’s well-being—and he wasn’t going to blow it now. For the rest of the trip to wherever they were going, he would stay there on the floor, ready to do whatever he could to fulfill his mission.
As they drove through the streets of Panama City, the sounds of the war grew steadily more distant. What had once been sharp, deafening explosions diminished to the sounds of rumbling thunder. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes into the drive—Kurt had no idea how long—even the thunder seemed to die out, replaced by the sounds of cheering and the clattering of pots and pans.
Turning from Paul to look out through the gunner’s hatch, Kurt could see, even in the darkness, that the windows and balconies of the surrounding buildings were packed with Panamanians whooping and cheering the American soldiers, waving the white flags of the opposition.With the outcome of the war never in question, they, too, knew that the world had changed.
Kurt started to point out the obvious to the rest of the occupants, but at first glance realized that he didn’t have to. For the first time since this ordeal began, the Delta guys were grinning.
In Burke, Virginia, Annie Muse watched the digital clock jump to 1:30, and she closed her eyes. There still had been no word about Kurt. Just the pictures. The endless images of violence and raging fires. Bad news comes right away, she tried telling herself. Or was it the other way around? No news was good news.
It wasn’t true; no news was just that: nothing. Emptiness. More of the same. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.
Plenty more, she decided. Especially if ...
If it was bad news—and God help her, she was becoming more and more convinced that it was—then she wasn’t ready to face it just yet. She’d lived for so long on hope that she didn’t know how she could handle grief. It’s the one emotion for which she had not prepared herself.Maybe it was the one emotion for which it was impossible to prepareoneself.
It was precisely 1:45 in the morning when she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to fate. “Dear God,” she said aloud, “whatever happens is in your hands.” For so long, she had tried to control the action—the calls, the questions, the suggestions; all the elements of her soul that she’d focused on bringing Kurt home safely. But she was ready to finally let go. She remembered Tomás telling her that surrenderingto God showed true faith. She was ready to take whatever happened,ready to make good, remain faithful, and do what needed to be done.
A sense of peace washed over her in that moment, so profound in its power that it nearly took her breath away.
As the APC pulled to a halt, Kurt heard the driver say into his radio, “Sir, the PC has arrived safely at LZ Juliet. Repeat, the PC has arrived safely at LZ Juliet.”
Kurt allowed himself a glimmer of relief. He understood that he himself was the PC—precious cargo—and that he had arrived at a landing zone codenamed Juliet, probably military-speak for the letter J. What he keyed on most intently though, and what brought the smile to his face, was the use of the word, “safely.”
He turned to his rescuers, speechless.
“Good work, Moose,” Chris said.
And then the personnel door dropped open again. Instantly, the vehicle was awash in activity as medics swarmed in to take custody of the wounded and hustle them off for emergency care. Kurt was the last to step out into the night, and what he saw took his breath away. They were in the Canal Zone, on the road between Balboa Elementary School, where Annie once taught, and Balboa High School, Kurt’s alma mater, on whose parade field he had spent countless hours marching and drilling as a junior ROTC candidate.
Now that field and that road were every bit a war zone, with helicoptersand Humvees and tents and equipment. The irony of it all was stunning.
He checked his watch as he stepped out onto the grass. It was exactly1:45 in the morning.
55
They ushered Kurt onto a Blackhawk medevac chopper, onto a corner of a seat next to a gravely wounded young man on a stretcher. Stark naked, the young man with close-cropped blond hair lay perfectly still, face-down. He was impossibly young—twenty, perhaps,but probably closer to high school age—and disturbingly pale. There was no missing the perfectly round hole in the small of his back. Kurt could only pray that the boy was still alive, that he might live on to experience the dreams and ambitions he brought with him to the home of Kurt’s youth and his passion.
“Hey, you,” someone yelled over the noise of the still-turning rotor blades.
Kurt turned at the sound to see a plastic IV bag being shoved in his direction.
“Hold this,” the medic said.
Kurt took the bag and held it in the manner that the medic had, by one finger thrust through the hanging loop in the top of the bag.
“Don’t squeeze it or mess with it, okay? Just hold it. It’s a short flight.” As the medic spoke, he helped a familiar face settle into a spot on the floor near Kurt�
�s feet. It was one of the Delta operators from the roof of Modelo, and he’d been shot through the leg. Someone had splinted the injury, but it was clear from the commando’s face that whatever they might have given for the pain wasn’t working.
An instant later, the medic was gone, and the operator clearly noted the concern in Kurt’s face. “It’s nothin’,” he said. “Just a scratch.”
Kurt didn’t belong here. He felt like an interloper, an observer of moments that should belong only to those who had earned the right to bear witness. He pulled the .45 from his waistband for the last time and laid it on the seat next to him.
As the chopper’s engine spun up and the blades bit into the thick tropical air, the aircraft lifted majestically off the ground and climbed into the night. It was impossible not to notice the sharp contrast betweenthe grace of this liftoff and that of the doomed Little Bird of just ninety minutes earlier. As the ground started to fall away, Kurt had difficultycomprehending how surroundings that were so familiar, so much a part of his life, could be made to look so foreign in the presenceof the people and machinery of warfare.
When they’d risen to treetop level, or maybe a little higher, Kurt was startled to feel a hand grasping the front of his shirt, and then the scruff of his neck as someone pulled him toward the chopper’s deck. It was the wounded Delta operator.
“Snipers,” the soldier said simply. “Keep your head down.”
Finally, when they were high enough, the operator let go of his shirt and pointed out of the open door toward the Canal.
“Well, Moose, congratulations. Looks like you’re really going home.”
The war had arrived at Howard Air Force Base as well, but the pace of this place was different. They were well within the safe zone here, and the activities were less about taking lives than saving them. Administrativetents and hospital tents had sprung up like mushrooms; dozens of them as far as the eye could see, and all of them bustled with activity.
The instant the Blackhawk’s landing gear touched the ground, medics and orderlies disembarked all the wounded, dispatching them in every direction. In less than a minute, Kurt found himself oddly alone, and without instruction. He helped himself out of the chopper and stood in the rear-echelon chaos, trying to figure what his next step might be.
The place seethed with activity. People, trucks, choppers, tracked vehicles, every implement of war. It was impossible not to think back on the images of every war movie he’d ever seen, only to realize that none of them had even come close to touching the reality of this un-choreographedswirl.
He felt invisible standing there, unnoticed and unassigned. But only for a moment.
In the sea of people and dust, in the darkness of the night, Kurt more sensed than saw that one person in the crowd was walking with distinct purpose directly toward him. It was a little startling at first, untilthe figure closed to within a few yards.
It was Brian, his caretaker from the backseat of the Little Bird. He walked like a zombie, with an emotionless stare that unnerved Kurt. His face was still a mass of crusty blood from the untreated head wound. “Where’s my .45?”
Oh, shit, where was the .45? Then he remembered. “One second,” he said, and he hurried back into the Blackhawk. Thankfully, the weapon lay on the seat, right where he’d left it. He brought it back outside. “Here it is.”
Brian’s expression hovered somewhere between dismay and disgust as he took back the pistol, gave it a brief examination, and then stuffed it back into its holster before striding back toward the hospital tents. Knowing nothing better to do, Kurt followed him.
He was halfway there when a young noncom with medical insignia approached him, arms outstretched, as if to catch him from falling. “Jesus, sir, are you all right?”
Kurt scowled. “I’m fine.”
“Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not.”
The noncom cocked his head, confused. Then Kurt understood. He was bloody as hell. “Oh, the blood. This isn’t mine. The blood is from other people.”
The confusion diminished, but didn’t go away. “Are you a civilian, sir?”
“Kurt Muse,” he said, offering his hand. “I was—”
“Oh, you’re Kurt Muse? We’ve been waiting for you, sir. Glad to see you’re all right.” He shook hands.
“Me, too.”
“You must be beat,” the soldier said. “Come with me. We’ll find a place for you to sit.” He led the way to an empty tent and made a broad gesture with his hand. “Sit anywhere. Sorry we don’t have any chairs.”
“You’ve got fresh air. That’s plenty for me right now.”
The noncom nodded, seemingly comfortable in the knowledge that he’d done his best to make a visitor comfortable. “Like I said, any place at all.”
“I’ll try to stay out of the way.”
Kurt wandered to a corner and stripped off his body armor, realizingfor the first time just how soaked he was with sweat. He could not have been wetter if he’d stepped out of a shower. Exhaustion was knocking on the door, too. He put the blood-soaked vest on the ground and sat on it.
“Kurt Muse?”
Kurt jumped, his head whipping around. His mind had wandered off somewhere. A colonel in jungle fatigues had materialized in front of him. As Kurt rose to his feet, the colonel tried to dissuade him.
“No, no, stay put. You’ve had a long night.”
Kurt stood anyway. “It’s been an amazing night,” he said. He extendedhis hand and stated the obvious. “Kurt Muse.”
The officer returned the gesture. “Colonel Boykin,” he said. “Jerry Boykin. I wanted to be the first to welcome you to freedom.”
Kurt knew he should be beaming with joy to meet this man, but he found himself managing a jumble of emotions. “Thank you, sir.”
“I wanted to know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Kurt didn’t hesitate. “Well, sir, I’d like to meet my rescuers.”
Boykin didn’t hesitate either. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Securityissues.”
“They were hurt,” Kurt said. “Some of them were badly hurt.”
The colonel nodded thoughtfully. “Not as badly as you might think. Nothing life-threatening. Doctors say they’ll all be fine.”
Boykin did his best at off-handed delivery, but Kurt saw something deeper in the man’s eyes. Hell, he’d seen the injuries himself. He knew better. “If you say so, sir,” he said at length. “I just wanted to say thanks. They saved my life.”
“Yes they did,” Boykin said. “I’ll pass your thanks along to them. I’m sure it will mean a lot.”
“Words can’t do it,” Kurt said. “Words can’t touch it.”
Boykin’s expression warmed. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “I’ll tell them you said that, too.” He extended his hand again. “Well, Mr. Muse, I’ve got a long day ahead and a lot of work to do. Try staying out of trouble.”
Kurt smiled. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He didn’t realize it at the time, but he had just met the deputy commanding officer of Delta Force.
Ten minutes later, another colonel approached. This time, Kurt saw him coming and rose to greet him.
“You’re Kurt Muse,” the officer said. “I’m Colonel Greenfield, the unit shrink.”
They shook hands. “Pleased to meet you,” Kurt said. “You’re here to see if I’m damaged goods?”
“Actually, no. Well, yes and no. If you need to talk things through, I’m certainly available for that.”
Kurt shook the offer off with a quick gesture of his hand.
“What I really came over for was to welcome you back to the world. I’ve been following reports about you for months.”
“Reports?”
“Doctors Ruffer and Ostrander, mainly. Others, too. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, waiting for just the right moment. Moose, you are one tough hombre.”
Kurt felt himself blush. “I’m not sure that tough’s the word,” he said. “There were lots of nigh
ts when tough was the last word I’d use to describe what I was feeling.”
Greenfield made a snorting sound, as if that were the most preposterousthing he’d ever heard. “Those are the moments we call human. There’s not a guy out there who doesn’t admire the hell out of you. I thought you should know that.”
Kurt didn’t know what to say. It was all too much. These people—the world’s bravest and most skilled warriors—admired him? It wasn’t possible. It was a nice thing for the doctor to say, but no way in the world was it even remotely possible.
“Anyway,” Greenfield said, offering his hand one more time, “like I said, welcome back to the world.”
Greenfield had barely walked away when Kurt saw Colonel Boykin approaching again.
“Moose!” He beckoned with an open hand.
Kurt approached, leaving the tent. Somewhere along the line, a young airman had been assigned to accompany Kurt step for step. Kurt assumed it was to keep him from getting into trouble, but the airmanseemed to think it was to keep him from causing it.
“Come with me,” Boykin said, ignoring Kurt’s human shadow. “I think you’ll like this.”
The colonel led the way to a tent that was like every other tent on the field, except this one was set apart from the others by a few extra yards. The instant Boykin pushed the flap out of the way, Kurt recognizedit as a hospital tent, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents poweredby the gas generator outside. Half a dozen bloodied men lay in various stages of pain and undress as doctors tended to wounds whose extent could only now be assessed.
“Nice to see your face again, Moose,” said the wounded soldier closest to him. Minus all the weapons and gear, he was barely recognizableas Jim Nelson. The others turned at the sound of Jim’s greetingand smiled at their visitor.
Six Minutes To Freedom Page 32
