Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (54 page)

So many miles to the north, Adam had no idea that this day, rather this night, had any particular significance. All he knew was that it was somewhere around the fifth or sixth month of his captivity, and that that captivity had become, in many ways, altogether too comfortable. That, and that Makeda didn't approve of "parole."

On the other hand, the girl was realistic. Life had slapped her around far too much for her to be anything else. "Since you can't escape unless you're outside and you can't escape from outside if we're manacled together and since you had better not try to escape without me, since you gave me your word, too, I suppose we'll have to live with it. And, if your word to Labaan wasn't good, I suppose it wouldn't be any good to me, either."

He found himself, from time to time, comparing her with his old girlfriend, back in Boston, Maryam the Ethiopian. Those comparisons did not generally favor the latter.

What was Maryam, after all? Adam wondered. Her father worked for the UN. She grew up among the people Labaan sometimes calls "tranzis." She was going to school on the UN ticket. She lived a sheltered life, an artificial life, with almost no idea of Africa as it was.

Compare that with Makeda, who not only knows Africa as it is, but has experienced the very worst of it, first hand.

Maryam was dark and moody, despite her ignorance and sheltered life. Makeda is bright as the sun, despite her utterly shitty one. I would prefer day over night . . . and . . .

I wonder if, perhaps, Labaan didn't do me the biggest favor of all in taking me.

D-Day, Rako, Punt

"Speak up, dammit!" Major Muktar Maalin shouted into his cell phone. Between the shouting, the massed shuffling of feet, the ascending roar of tank engines, and the cursing as some of those engines failed to roar, it was something besides easy to make out the frantic words of one of his uncle's, Gutaale's, minions.

Whoever was on the other end of the connection forced himself to calm down and enunciate. "Your uncle . . . the chief . . . wants . . . you to . . . take your . . . battalion . . . and go . . . to the aid . . . of your uncle . . . his brother . . . in Bandar Cisman. He is . . . under . . . attack."

Since the minion seemed to be having no trouble understanding Maalin's words, the major said, quickly, "Tell the chief I put my soldiers on alert when his brother called. We will be ready to roll within the hour."

"Hurry! Our chief's brother . . . urges all haste."

D-Day, Bandar Cisman

Instead of a flight helmet, he wore a padded wire set with headphones on each side and an adjustable boom mike. Air through the open window rushed through Luis' hair. The pilot wore the same. Both sets of headphones were connected by wire to a central box.

His gun was a fine weapon, Luis thought. His instructors had called it a PKB. It had spade grips he clutched to his chest, and fired, so they'd said, about eight hundred rounds a minute. Who could count so fast, Luis wondered. No matter, it fires fast enough.

The pilot, Harley, had lined up on his first target and begun firing rockets mounted on the wings. Harley had experience with these, apparently, because it took him only four shots before one struck the boat, blasting off one corner and setting the rest alight.

"I used to be better than this," the pilot cursed. "Curse of old age. Try your luck, Luis."

No, Luis found, firing from a plane is different from firing from the ship. He missed with his first several bursts completely. He was getting the range right, but the lead required was throwing him off. Way off.

"Next pass," Harley called, "start shooting before you think you're lined up on the target and let the plane walk it in for you." Harvey made a sweeping gesture taking in the stacks and stacks of ammunition crates. "It's not like we've got any shortage of machine gun ammo, amigo."

Luis nodded, "Si, señor."

Hovering two miles west of Bandar Cisman, Cruz watched the rockets go in, even as the CH-801's side-fired tracers drew bright lines in his NVGs, lines that faded only slowly. He glanced left and right. At the limits of vision, about a mile for objects of that size, he saw the other two Hips hovering as well.

"That works," he said. Passing the message on to the other two helicopters, he lifted his Hip's tail, applied power to the engines, and closed on the town.

"Move, Marines. MOVE!"

Cazz stood behind the clamshells, physically prodding the disembarking men into a semblance of order. Feet churning the gravel and sand, they snaked forward, in a reformed double line, around the sides of the helicopter. Automatically, they stooped forward as they moved. Sure, the chopper's blades were high, butcha nevah know.

Ahead, five or six meters in front of the blades' reach, the platoon leader of Second Platoon, a ‘youngster' of forty who'd retired from the Corps as a major, stood directing his squads into a platoon line. North and south, the other two platoons did the same. The only difference was that First Platoon, to the north, oriented to the southeast while Second, to the south, oriented northeast. The town was now boxed.

Cazz's RTO, another youngster of thirty-seven, tapped his shoulder with the handset of a radio. "Sir, I've got the mortars."

Taking the handset, Cazz said, "Slow fire, and I mean slow. Center of mass of the town. I want their attention and I want them scared . . . but not dead."

"Shot, over," came the reply, in mere seconds. In another forty or so, the Marines heard the freight train sound of a falling one-twenty, followed by a bright flash that silhouetted the one-story buildings of the place.

"That's the ticket," Cazz said. "Give 'em one every five minutes, no more, until further notice.

Ahead, at a range of three hundred to three hundred and fifty meters from the town, the Marine skirmish line went prone and began a slow, rattling fire on the buildings. "Scared," the man had said.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The dove, descending, breaks the air

With wings of incandescent terror.

-T.S. Eliot

D-Day, MV
Merciful
, northeast of Bandar Cisman

The occasional fall of mortar shells, to the southwest, was at best dimly perceptible, and then only if one was looking and knew what one was looking for. Nobody on the ship really was. They were much more concerned with reconfiguring, refueling, and arming the three Hips that bounced now on the flight deck.

Cruz saw Stauer standing to the left of his Hip, beckoning with one hand. He popped his door open, told his Russian copilot, "Your bird, but sit tight," unbuckled himself and stepped to the PSP deck.

"We've already made the arrangements," Stauer shouted over the roar of the choppers. "You'll-two of you-be outfitted with auxiliary fuel tanks and two rocket pods apiece. Then those two are going to Nugaal to pick up Welch, his team, the accountant, and a party of seventy-one civilians with not much more than the clothes on their backs. Your third bird will still support the Marines at Bandar Cisman."

"That's going to fuck up the pickup of Buckwheat's boys," Cruz objected, shaking his head doubtfully. "It's also going to interfere with striking Bandar Cisman before the Marines go in. I thought we planned on one Hip to pick up Welch's team and the accountant."

"Yeah," Stauer agreed. "But it got complicated. Doubly complicated. The accountant will cooperate, but only if his family-his extended family-is safe. And Terry liberated twenty-nine slaves. He says he won't leave them behind."

"Gonna cost us."

"Yeah. I'm worried about Buckwheat, not so much about the rest. I directed the birds dedicated to the strike on Bandar Qassim to continue to screen up the east coast to the town of Foar, engaging anything coming our way, then cut northwest toward Bandar Qassim Airport and extract Buckwheat. They should be able to do that, get back here, rearm and refuel, in time to go north again and hit anything coming our way. I've also directed Chin in The Drunken Bastard to move north ten miles and guard."

What are the risks? Cruz wondered. I'd planned on the extra Hip at Bandar Cisman to be able to shift to help out Reilly if he couldn't handle the tanks. Maybe he can, maybe he can't. The ground up by Buckwheat is broken as hell. Sure, the CH-801's can lift on a short run, but they still need about three hundred feet. And the Marines' mortars need more ammunition . . . but I suppose Borsakov can take that.

"Is Buckwheat at a place with at least three hundred unobstructed feet clearance, and smooth enough?" Cruz asked.

Stauer shook his head. "He-rather Rattus-says ‘no,' but there is such a place a couple of thousand meters north."

"A couple of thousand meters . . . He's going to try to take the airfield for extraction? No fucking way!"

"Relax," Stauer assured, "Rattus has a plan." A fucked up plan, but he has a plan.

D-Day, seven miles west of Dhurbo, Ophir

"You have a plan for this, Eeyore?" Morales asked.

The enemy boat, which had started perhaps three miles behind when they'd spotted it, had closed to within a mile and a half. Soon enough, it would be in range. And then we're fucked, Antoniewicz thought, because we haven't a thing to shoot back with good for more than thirty or forty meters. And not super good at that.

"No, no plan," he answered, "except to keep running and hope for the best."

"We could head in to shore and crash the boat. Try to lose them on land," Morales offered. "But . . . "

"Right. Simmons can't run."

"So what do we do?"

"Outrun them if we can."

"How do you outrun somebody who's faster than you?"

"Well," Eeyore said, "we did mine the boat."

Danger led to doubt. "We hope we mined the boat," Morales said.

"Yeah." It was a long way to the southern turn toward the ship. Eeyore looked wistfully to the southwest, and "home."

"Get to work on the boat's radio," he told Morales. "Maybe we can get some help before it's too late."

"That radio's a burned out piece of shit," Morales said. "But I'll try."

D-Day, midway between Faor and Bandar Qassim Airport

Approximately forty miles south of Antoniewicz and Morales, and completely unaware of their situation, or even their existence, Biggus Dickus Thornton, flying in the medevac plane, spoke to Rattus on the radio.

"How's your limey?" Thornton asked.

"He'll make it if you do," Rattus Hampson answered.

"We're about twenty minutes out."

"Load?"

"Two gunships, one dustoff. The gunships have one each side-firing machine gun, manned, two rocket pods and two machine gun pods each. Most we can carry is two men in the dustoff-that would be you and the Brit-plus one in each of the gunships . . . "

"Won't do, Biggus," Rattus answered. "Leaves us one short and we're not leaving anyone behind."

"I was about to say, one in each of the gunships plus one if we can expend all ammo."

D-Day, south of Bandar Qassim Airport

Rattus listened to the firing to the north and answered, "I don't think you're going to be short of targets, Biggus. Tell the pilots to go ahead and assume they'll expend all their load. Rattus, out."

They carefully laid Vic in the back of the Hummer, then Rattus carelessly tossed his aid bag in the passenger seat. Reaching into a different bag, Rattus pulled out two bungee cords. Taking a bungee cord, he began to affix their one remaining machine gun, the one he had carried, to the roll bar on top of the Hummer.

"You sure about this?" Wahab asked.

Rattus shook his head in the negative, saying, "No, I'm not. Are you willing to leave Buckwheat and Fletcher behind?"

Wahab snorted, thinking about good times in the not-so-distant past, camping out with Fulton, trading stories and lies, and spying. He remembered the American black saving, or at least trying to save, a young girl that he, Wahab, hadn't had and wouldn't have had either the foresight or the will or the courage to try to save. He remembered, too, his friend's-and, yes, Buckwheat was a friend, now-favorite saying: Thank God my multi-great granddaddy got dragged onto that boat.

"Not a chance," the African returned.

Rattus smiled broadly. "Thought not. After all, you're one of us, now."

Wahab felt a sudden warm rush of embarrassment on his face, even as his heart felt warmed by the compliment and the acceptance.

D-Day, four and a half miles west of Dhurbo, Ophir

"I don't think this is going to work," Morales observed. "And, no, the fucking radio doesn't work for trans, though I can pick up BBC, if you're curious." He whistled a few bars of "Lillibullero," to make the point.

He could see the distant flashes of what was probably a machine gun on the pursuing boat. He rotated his monocular down and scanned for splashes. Yep, about two hundred meters behind us and to port as we bear. On the plus side, they don't seem to be very good shots. He said as much to Eeyore.

Antoniewicz had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "How good do they need to be? They'll close to point blank, eventually. Best bring Simmons forward and get him in a life vest."

"Aye, aye," Morales agreed.

D-Day, south of Bandar Qassim Airport

Even though he was firing subsonic ammunition, with a suppressor that would probably work with a One-o-Five, and did a pretty fair job of holding in the muzzle flash, too, every now and again Buckwheat got the feeling that somewhere, someone, out on the long slope below him, had his number. He got the feeling again when a long burst of machine gun fire pelted the rock behind which he covered, sending off shards in all the wrong directions. At times like those, he thought it wise to back up and find someplace else to shoot from.

Rifle cradled in the crook of his elbows, he backpeddled down the slope and out of the line of fire. This was, as it turned out, a very good thing as the next burst of fire didn't hit the rock; it hit precisely where he had been posted.

Maybe the suppressor is about done for, he thought, They're only good for so many shots anyway. Flash might be leaking through. No, it's probably leaking through.

He heard an engine's roar from behind him, coupled with the sound of gravel being tossed out by spinning tires.