Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  He counted seven soldiers, but others could be resting under the tent or somewhere else in the oasis. They wore light brown uniforms. Regulars, he guessed. He searched the area again for heavy weapons, which for him meant anything larger than a rifle. They could have rocket propelled grenade launchers, but he didn’t see any. If they did have any heavies, they were probably in the trucks.

  The uniformed men were drinking small finger cups of strong Arab coffee and carrying on an animated conversation.

  Whatever weapons they had were out of sight. Those occupying the oasis acted as if no nearby threat existed.

  No perimeter guards patrolling the grounds, nor did he see any defensive measures — no foxholes, no stacked rocks— nothing. They acted as if they had all the time in the world. Well, that time was coming to a quick end.

  He handed the binoculars back to Corporal Heights.

  “I’m going to send Kellogg up to relieve you, Corporal— along with the nightscope. When she gets here, you come down and find me. I’m going to talk with the Lieutenant and see how we are going to do this, then we’ll go over it with the Marines. Keep an eye out for any sign of unusual activity. From what I see, I don’t think they suspect us of being here, and that is the way I would like to keep it.”

  “Yes, Gunny,” Heights acknowledged. He put the binoculars to his eyes again and swept the small oasis below for a few seconds before putting them down. “Lot of open ground. Lot of camel shit out there, too.”

  Stapler’s eyebrows bunched together, and he wiped away some sand stuck to his leathery face. “And, Heights, do you think I intend for us to cross that open ground in the daylight? Christ, son, give me some sense.”

  “Sorry, Gunny. It was just—”

  “I know what it is, Corporal. You think I am going to go back down, get the Marines, and we are going to charge across this space toward the oasis. Even I am well aware we wouldn’t make it. Marines take time to plan for operations and, by God, this one is going to be no different.”

  Stapler sighed. “Between you and me, Heights, we have been lucky to make it this far without being attacked.

  There is no going back. Behind us, somewhere, are those who burned the compound after we left. They’re out there, Corporal. They’re tracking us, and they outnumber us.

  I’m surprised they haven’t stumbled on us yet, considering we’ve done shit to cover our tracks.”

  “Gunny, you have a way of putting a dark cloud over a nice day.”

  “A cloud would be nice. Keep coming up with ideas, Corporal Heights. We may need some of them.” Stapler grinned at the young Marine. The spread of his lips pulled the dry, cracked skin apart, causing the grin to disappear quickly. Good Marine, Stapler said to himself. Just hope he doesn’t become a dead Marine. He glanced down at the others in the encampment. Good chance that by tonight some of his Marines would be dead. It was something that continuously intruded on his thoughts and had since the battle last night. Death was always waiting out front.

  Marines fight and win battles. They don’t sit around, afraid one of them was going to die. Death was a frequent traveler with the Marine Corps. It came with the turf, the price paid for honor and glory.

  Stapler inched his way downhill until he could stand without danger of being seen from the oasis. The riggers had three ends of a canvas top stretched and tied between a humvee and the truck. The fourth corner seemed to be giving them a problem. Either they had tied the rectangular sheet awry, or the vehicles were parked too far apart.

  Most of the riggers had crawled under the three-quarters hung sheet, even as the three men working to tie up the last end continued their disjointed effort. If they didn’t get it done soon, he would tell them to leave it. Everyone needed to conserve their energy. The other humvee, parked close to the side of the hill, had both advantages of a small half canvas stretched to two rods in the ground and a natural shade created by the setting sun. Stapler saw the professor and his male assistant, Karim, sitting with their backs against the rocks. As he neared, Karim leaped up and began to dance around the area, shouting, “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ!” while slapping his back.

  Hell of a time to become religious, thought Stapler. And a good thing this large hill absorbs the sounds between us and the enemy three miles away. The professor grabbed the taller Karim by the arm and beat the back of the young man’s shirt with the palm of his hand. “Scorpion,” Stapler heard the professor say. Karim ripped his shirt off, threw it on the sand, and stomped it repeatedly.

  The only live things seen in the two days since they fled the compound had been scorpions and beetles. He wondered briefly how scorpion would taste. He hated beetles, which he had eaten during his survival, evasion, resistance, and escape — SERE — refresher training two years ago. If you can get past the initial crunch followed by the scrape of their shells on the side of your throat as you swallow, then you can eat anything. If he had to do it again, he would swallow them whole, even if Macgregory said they’d crawl back up if you didn’t chew them.

  Chewing them made him nearly throw up.

  Two days crossing the hot Sahara had taken their toll.

  A few, such as Miss. Sheila Anne Forester, complained nonstop about everything from being tired to making camp to wanting food to anything else they could think of.

  He ignored the complaints, forcing the convoy to continue, alternating drivers and guards with those walking, so everyone could snatch a few winks of sleep — but continuously moving, putting distance between them and those following. They were being followed. There was no doubt in Stapler’s mind. He would. Therefore, they must.

  The three vehicles had been unable to take the forty three of them on board at the same time. The humvee with the radio held six, the other held eight, and in the truck he crammed three in the cab and ten on the bed amid the water, food, and diesel fuel. If the truck ever took a direct hit, those on board would be immolated by the fireball. He initially assigned the older individuals to the humvees and the truck. The two women riggers, Mary Coblen and Dorothy Meyran—“Call me, Dot, please,” mid forties he estimated — had insisted on walking. They said it was a great way to lose weight, and they could afford to lose some. He couldn’t argue with that.

  The two women walked until yesterday noon when Dot, the younger one, collapsed. Stapler originally thought of them as his Hell’s Grannies from the way the two walked and Mary talked. He knew few boatswain mates in the Navy with more skill in the colorful language of cursing than Mary. Mary sat where she had since early this morning on the back of the truck bed, watching over the unconscious Dot. Stapler wasn’t too concerned about the three who collapsed. A little water and rest, and they would come around. It wasn’t as if they had been in the desert heat for weeks. Christ! It had only been two days.

  How in the hell were they going to handle another three or four days until rescue arrived?

  Stapler reached the bottom of the hill and motioned Private “Catsup” Kellogg over to him. Several nearby Marines sat with their shoes and socks off, doctoring their feet with balm and powder. He needed to do the same.

  Draped socks over nearby rocks dried quickly in the heat.

  He told Kellogg to go relieve Corporal Heights at the top of the hill and handed her the nightscope from his pack.

  Stapler emphasized specific instructions to follow in the event that she saw any hints of new activity inside the oasis. New activity might mean those occupying the oasis had become aware of them.

  “And keep your eyes open, Catsup. I know you’re tired, but stay awake. I’ll send someone up in about an hour to relieve you.”

  She licked her dry lips and leaned forward. “Gunny, I still have some water,” she confided.

  Stapler leaned down. “Then while you are up on the hill, you drink it. It’s your water. By tomorrow morning, we will have more.” He fought the urge to accept the offer, as much as he wanted to.

  “I thought, maybe, you might want—”

  “Kellogg,
get your butt up the hill. Do I look like an old man?”

  She grinned. “Well, you do remind me of my father sometimes.”

  Stapler’s eyebrows bunched together, and a grin escaped.

  “Kellogg, I ain’t your father, but if I was, I would put you across my lap and spank the bejesus out of you.”

  “Oh, Gunny,” she said, faking a moan. “You say the most beautiful lest things to a young lady. Spankings?

  And, me without my leather straps.”

  “Enough, Kellogg. Get your ass up the hill, and don’t get it shot off.” He turned to move into the bustle of the camp.

  “I won’t, Gunny. It’s made for spanking.”

  Stapler ignored her. Women in the Marine Corps made combat a little more attractive, but combat wasn’t meant to be attractive. Combat meant long periods of watching and waiting followed with a few minutes of racing adrenaline, gut-wrenching fear, and ass-tightening fighting. For him, the vote was still out on women in combat, regardless of what those feminazis, who had never been in battle, thought. He had a quick fantasy about Kellogg involving leather, two mirrors, and a French maid’s outfit before intruding thoughts of his wife, JCPenney, and credit cards quickly killed it.

  “Don’t keep those socks and shoes off too long,” he said to the three Marines sitting near the front of the truck, their backsides in the shade of the radiator. He wondered how they stood the heat but then realized the radiator was probably cooler than the surrounding rocks. “And draw those feet into the shade. Last thing you want is blistered feet and ankles. They’ll rub raw in minutes when you start walking.”

  He moved on to a weak chorus of “Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”

  He faintly heard two of them exchange comments.

  “Why is he smiling?”

  “He’s a gunny. As things get worse, life becomes more fulfilling.”

  “Then we must be fixing to die.”

  He forced the Kellogg-engineered grin from his face.

  His lips hurt from the effort. Damn, it hurt to smile and it hurt not to.

  During the slow but steady pace as they fled the enemy, Stapler had alternated the Marines so they could rest every couple of hours. The survival of the convoy rested on the Marines, not the riggers, and definitely not the professor, Karim, and Miss. Sheila Anne Forester. He looked around the encampment for his thorn. Griped and bitched the whole two days. How can one woman so young have so much bitching in her? He had hoped the sun would have tempered her. He shaded his eyes and looked toward the blazing orb beating down on them. Not much longer, and it would disappear below the horizon. For a moment, he understood why the Egyptians worshiped the sun.

  The trip had been one of constant movement on his part to keep the convoy going. Stapler assigned a Marine to each of the humvees and forced two of the riggers to walk so he could put two Marines in the back of the truck.

  Their task was to return fire and give the Marines who were walking an opportunity to take cover and join the fray. He and the lieutenant had walked the entire distance.

  This lack of capability to put everyone on board a vehicle limited the speed to about three miles an hour. Normal terrain would have allowed them to move around five miles per hour at a fast pace. The sand, uneven terrain, and thousands of small rocks that rolled under the boot with each step made walking atrocious and dangerous.

  Several had minor sprained ankles caused by boots twisting off the rocks. If they had been wearing anything other than steel-toed combat boots, some of those sprained ankles would have been broken ones.

  The rigger wounded during the return from Alpha site had his arm in a sling and rested near the three sunstroke victims. Mary was wiping the sweat from her own forehead and then wiping the wet handkerchief across the face of Dot, who remained unconscious and moaning. They needed water, and they needed it tonight. Without it, he had little doubt that Dot would die. She was the worst of the three. The other two were semiconscious. These two had managed to sip some water and seemed to be recovering.

  He ran his tongue across dry, cracked lips. They all needed water. Like Kellogg, Stapler had a couple of tablespoons of the precious liquid remaining in his canteen.

  As much as he wanted it, he refused to drink it until the others had fresh water.

  During the trip, the other Marines walked alongside the vehicles with a couple out front and another two bringing up the rear. The first night out had been tense. By dawn, they had only gone about eight miles but had put a few hills between them and the compound. Smoke rising from the direction of the compound told them there was no going back.

  The first day started like an excursion. But the rising sun soon burned off the chill of the desert night to bake everything under it. He tried to ration the water, but the riggers drank whenever they felt thirsty, which increased as the day wore on. Stapler had seen the water rapidly disappearing, and when his entreaties went unheeded, he had the Marines fill their canteens to the top. He ordered them to ration the water, but even so, with two days of sweat sucking heat, the water soon disappeared. At least the Marines had kept water a little longer than the others. With the exception of a few drops scattered through the ranks, the last of the water had disappeared this morning.

  The LT stood to one side, talking to someone hidden by the second humvee. Stapler headed in that direction, and as he approached, he heard her before he saw her and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Miss. Sheila Anne Forester stood in front of the lieutenant, reaching out every few seconds, touching the officer on the arm or shoulder. Stapler shook his head. If the lieutenant’s small head wasn’t doing the thinking instead of his big one, she was going to make sure it was before this trip was over.

  “Lieutenant,” Stapler interrupted as he approached. He had no desire to know what they were discussing. He saw the smile disappear on little Miss. Sheila Anne Forester’s face. It gave him a perverse sense of pleasure that he affected her the same way.

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “Sir, may I speak with you … alone?”

  “Oh, we have military secrets out here that only the lieutenant needs to know?” Sheila asked sarcastically, her eyes narrowing with contempt.

  Stapler stepped back and stared at the ground around her feet.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just checking where the venom fell. With no water, everything liquid is welcomed.”

  “Jeff!”

  Jeff! She’s calling the lieutenant Jeff!

  Lieutenant Nolan’s face turned red. “Excuse me, Sheila. I’ll be right back. The gunny and I need to talk.”

  He touched Stapler’s arm, and the two moved off toward the edge of the group, leaving Miss. Sheila Anne Forester glaring after them.

  She stood there a few seconds with her hands on her hips, angrily pouting at the two as they walked away, before she stomped her foot and walked away in the opposite direction.

  “Jeff?” Stapler whispered to the young officer.

  “Yes, Jeff,” Nolan replied, his voice firm.

  “I thought it was Malcolm?”

  “It is, but Sheila thinks my middle name Jeff sounds better. Who am I to argue with a civilian?” He grinned.

  “And you shouldn’t, either. Her father knows a lot of people in Washington and could make it rough on us when we get back.”

  “What’s he going to do, LT? Make me retire?”

  Nolan ignored the questions as Stapler looked away from the lieutenant to hide his are.

  Kids! A couple of seconds of silence passed before Stapler turned to the officer. “Her father paid for this expedition only if they took her with them. I don’t think he is going to make any heat as long as his little daughter gets back safe and sound. Come to think of it, most likely, as long as she is safe and sound, he probably doesn’t care whether she makes it back or not. Probably why he sent her; to give him some peace at home. LT, a little unsolicited advice: You are the one who needs to be careful.

  Whatever it is she is
up to most likely won’t be in your or our best interests. Kind of reminds me of the black widow spider, they eat—”

  Lieutenant Nolan held up his hand. “Gunny, I’m a big boy and quite capable of taking care of myself. She is not a bad person once you get to know her. Sure, she’s a little rude and, maybe spoiled a little—”

  “A little?”

  “But it is more a self-esteem problem than a conceit one. She just needs reassurance that everything is all right.”

  “And I am sure the lieutenant — being a sensitive nineties male — has the right reassurance for her?”

  “Gunny, it is strictly in the line of duty.”

  “Lieutenant, if you believe that, then I have a bridge I want to sell you.” “What you got, Gunny?” Lieutenant Nolan asked, stopping and facing Stapler, a slight edge to his voice.

  It’s your funeral, Lieutenant, Stapler thought. In his mind, he had a quick vision of the lieutenant marrying this vampire, having several kids, and staying home to raise them while she went partying off into the sunset. “Tsch tsch,” Stapler said. He looked up and saw Nolan glaring at him.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, you’re right. I am out of line. I will leave the reassuring to you.” Stapler hooked his thumb toward the top of the hill. “The oasis is crawling with enemy troops. Most of them are natives — Tauregs, as the professor calls them — along with about a dozen military advisors.

  I only saw seven, but others may be scattered throughout the camp. They are probably the ones in charge. They have made camp for the night. Tents are up, and campfires are burning.”

  “How many total?”

  “About thirty to forty. They have a truck. If we capture it, our men won’t have to walk the last hundred miles. No heavy weapons seen. If they have any, they are probably in the truck. Best place to protect them from the sand.”

  “Think we can take the oasis?”

  Stapler reached in his shirt pocket and brought out his last cigarette. He unfolded the package surrounding it carefully, as if unwrapping a highly valuable treasure. He held it to his eyes and searched for any breaks and then, satisfied, he lit it. He had always meant to quit smoking; looked as if he was going to have that opportunity.