Leon Uris (16 page)

Gunfire cracked and echoed throughout the yard. Either some Irans had regrouped, or maybe there was a patrol outside the fort that had rushed back.

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Barrage them with TOWs. Do not! Do not fire near that bomb laying out there.” As the missiles zipped and struck, the end of the yard choked in blood and agony.

Bandar Barakat was shoved forward toward the front cabin, tied and gagged. Grubb and Marsh remained outside of the SCARAB as their men went up the ramp.

Jeremiah Duncan looked it all over quickly, seized Quinn’s arm. “If anything happens to me, it’s your command, Quinn.”

Quinn protested. “Don’t like it.”

Dogbreath repeated, “Yea or nay?”

“This is Quinn. I’ll do it.”

“Dogbreath to Cherokee and IV.”

“Yo.”

“Yo.”

“Prepare the SCARAB to go.”

“Aye, aye.”

“Yo.”

It happened neither violently nor loudly, but with a powerful
womph
! Outside, Marsh went down. The left-side bubble of the SCARAB’s windshield popped in, followed by a roiling hiss of air and a shower of razor-sharp metal squares and explosive buckshot. The top of Cherokee’s head was sliced clean off; behind him, Jeremiah Duncan’s and Novinski’s faces were blown away. IV caught a ricochet boring into his left side. He was still alive!

Quinn had been kneeling over Barakat, tying him up, and was out of the direct line of the bomb’s wrath.
Oh, Jesus!
Quinn’s head screamed! He doubled over, his forehead opened and bleeding down his face. He fought his way back from unconsciousness with an unknown power keeping him alive and awake.

“Corpsman,” Quinn called softly, “I’m hit, when you’ve got a chance.”

Outside the plane, Grubb ran to Marsh, flung him over his shoulder, and ran for the SCARAB. Marines jumped out of the plane to cover and assist them. Marsh’s leg dangled by a cord of sinew.

Dr. Wheat went forward. “Three body bags! Dogbreath, Novinski, and Cherokee are dead.”

Ropo’s men tugged the bodies and laid them out
in the center aisle, then fished for the body bags.

“IV and Quinn,” Dr. Wheat called.

“I’m all right,” Quinn gasped. “Are you hit? I just have a little trouble seeing.”

IV was alive and groaning. He pointed at his side. Wheat ripped his shirt in half to get to the wound and applied a pressure pack, hard now, hard. “Now, don’t you go into shock on me, IV. You’re going to make it if we can stop the bleeding. Talk.”

“That’s better, count me in,” IV rasped.

“Doc! We got a mess back here.”

“IV, press hard. Quinn, I’ll send Corpsman Lew up for you.”

“Yo.”

The doctor got Marsh on the operating litter and examined the mangled limb and mapped a course of action. He applied a tourniquet and sent Corpsman Lew forward.

Lew had Quinn sit, then knelt alongside him. “Hang on, bubba.” He wrapped a large cloth over Quinn’s head and wiped the blood from his face. It was very difficult to move, for the cabin ceiling was dripping with the blood of the three dead Marines and the floor was slimy with it.

“Talk to me, bubba. Where did you get hit?”

“I think the back of my head and the front of my head.”

“How’s your attitude?”

“I’m okay, goddammit.”

“Talk about shithouse luck,” Corpsman Lew said. “Back of your neck is ripped, and it looks like a mole furrow right around to your forehead…and that’s got a nice hole in it. You gonna be all pretty again, Quinn. I’m taping the gash together and wrapping your head tight. We’ll get that bleeding…yes, sir.”

“Whew, Lew, be gentle, mother.”

Corpsman Lew gasped for breath after finishing a
very rapid binding.

“Who got hit?” Quinn cried.

“Cherokee, Novinski, and Dogbreath are dead. IV is hurting. Marsh’s wounded. We’ll have to go into IV’s belly and take a look.”

Quinn’s mind bolted through bashings of pain. He gave himself a few seconds more to align with the situation. Think, son, think. He dared open his eyes, and the first sight of the cabin caused him to vomit. That was good. The puking was over with.

It became clear. IV was the only one who could fly the SCARAB. Quinn called for Doc Wheat and Grubb.

The doctor checked Quinn quickly. “You’ll last for a while. Corpsman Lew. Shot of penicillin in the ass for Quinn and prepare some plasma. I’ve got to get back and take Marsh’s leg off.”

“No,” Quinn snapped. “IV is the only one who can fly us out. He has priority on medical attention. Grubb.”

“Yo.”

“Dogbreath told me to take over. Do you have any problem with that?”

“I heard him,” IV rasped.

“Hell, no, Gunner,” Grubb said.

“As I understand it,” Quinn said, “we’ve got two emergencies, Marsh and IV. IV is the only one who can fly us out. Keep him awake and out of shock.”

“What about Marsh?” Dr. Wheat asked.

“Corpsman Lew is assigned to Marsh till you can get back to him.”

“But I can’t fly, I can’t move,” IV agonized.

“You can tell me how to fly. Remember, I’ve logged a few hours’ flight time on this plane,” Quinn said.

“Can you see at all, Quinn?”

“We’ll work that out. No choice. Kindly stay alive, IV. I need Jarvis front and center.”

Master Tech Sergeant Roosevelt Jarvis had been
seated close to the front cabin. He wormed his way in.

“Novinski has bought it,” Quinn said.

“Shit.”

“Take Dogbreath’s seat and run down our systems.”

As Quinn cleared his eyes of blood, Jarvis came up with death-notice news. “All the systems are inoperative. The display panels have been blown away. I don’t think we’ve even got radio.”

“Quinn to Grubb.”

“Yo.”

“I need some paper maps and a pair of field compasses. I’m keeping Jarvis here with me.”

Quinn turned to the blown-in window. “IV, any way we can fly with the window out?”

“No.”

“Mercer, this is Quinn. Get your tool kit and come up here.”

They moved with unerring grace through the slippery carpet as Quinn gave orders between thumps of blood spilling down his face.

A break! The window frame was made of titanium and intact. Mercer measured the hole.

“I think the back of my seat is titanium,” Quinn rasped. “Remove it and see if you can use a piece.”

“No way we can attach it in the frame.”

“All right,” Quinn said, “do you have any clamps?”

“Yeah, four or five.”

“How’s this: wrap the piece with plastic from the spare body bags and canvas from the litters. We clamp it all together, put it inside the plane, and tie it with rope wire through the struts. Anybody got a better idea?”

The odor of dead parts now mingled with a waterfall of sweat.

“Jarvis. Help me into Cherokee’s seat,” Quinn
ordered.

“Yo.”

Grubb took off Quinn’s soaked bandage and replaced it.

“Grubb. I want you to stay up front. Turn the back cabin over to Ropo. Then snuggle in close to Jarvis. Jarvis, you read the instruments and point. Grubb, take my hand and place it on the proper levers. IV, you still there, buddy?”

“In a manner of…” IV gasped.

“Have you got the drill? Stop me if I’m making a bad move,” Quinn said.

Quinn made the mistake of reaching to give IV a pat. IV’s stomach seemed bubbling to explode. “If we can’t get this SCARAB up and away, I think we fight it out to the last man,” Quinn said to himself. “I’m not taking these men to an Iranian prison.” He punched the makeshift window. May not hold.

“Mercer, make a brace or a cross over the window out of a couple of machine-gun barrels.”

“Got it.”

No Iranian had crossed the “I dare you” line in the courtyard, but distant curses could be heard from the survivors, reaching to their depths for valor, collecting weapons amid the devastation, and craving a rally.

The first shots rang over the courtyard, kicking up dirt near the SCARAB.

“Ropo! Get all your TOW men out of the plane and give the Irans hellfire! Shoot up everything you’ve got! We need to buy ten minutes.”

IV grunted the checklist to Grubb, who quickly located the switches and levers and moved Quinn’s hand to them.

…Doc Wheat had screwed down the tourniquet on Marsh’s leg, turned him over to Corpsman Lew, and skidded on blood to the forward cabin to ease the pressure bandage off IV. He probed. “I need a
bigger flashlight here!”

“Coming,” Mercer answered.

“Holy
Mother
!” screamed IV.

“Sulfa powder! Sulfa powder!” Wheat called, probing with forceps and fingers. “Geez peese,” he cried, pulling out a piece of buckshot. “Sorry, buddy, I’ve got to cauterize you…don’t go into fucking shock on me. Who’s holding the flashlight?

“Give me the light and tell Corpsman Lew I need the hot needle, and a couple slugs of brandy, then put this clamp in his mouth to bite on.”

Outside, the Marine shoulder missiles laid rubble on rubble and broke up the Irans’ attempt to rally.

“We’re running low on TOWs!”

“Fire your clips till empty. There’s ammo ditched on the ground, right side of the craft.”

“In like Quinn,” Mercer said, pointing at the unconventional window brace.

“Kick it, hard,” Quinn ordered.

It held.

“IV.”

“Oh, piss, what?”

“If the ship doesn’t hold pressurization, how low do we have to fly?”

“Under ten thousand…” he groaned.

“Hot needle coming up!”

A barrage of automatic fire wiped out all other sounds. Quickly, everyone clamped on earphone sound deflectors.

“I’ve got your belly deadened best I can, IV, now drink this, then bite on your clamp. Go.”

Wheat applied the needle. IV arched up, screamed. Held in place by strong hands, he settled down and a smile crossed his sweaty, bloody, tortured face.

“Hey, Marine, good going,” Wheat said.

“Jarvis, can you punch in an alternate system and try to bring up the CDU?”

“All the display panels and LED readouts were shattered by the cluster,” Jarvis answered.

“Do we have a radio?” Quinn asked.

“Negative.”

“Oh, Lord. Well, let’s see.” The head pain came on like a torrent until he had to bite his tongue and lower lip, hard. Come on, Quinn, for Christ’s sake, this is no time to pass out.

“Jarvis.”

“Yo.”

“Jarvis, wipe the blood out of my eyes, then have the closest two men to Barakat remove his gag and get his face up here. What’s our fuel reading?”

“No reading.”

Quinn quickly ran through the problem. He had ledgered the weight of each piece of equipment. If he subtracted all the missiles and bullets shot up, subtracted the approximate weight of the fuel used, he might get a round figure on remaining fuel. He gave the problem over the intercom.

“No questions, just answers,” he ordered.

It appeared they could get off the ground and fly…how long was moot…

Quinn mulled taking a run down the courtyard with the nacelles at seventy-five degrees to save fuel. No…madness. What if, out of fear of running out of fuel, we flew in helicopter mode and made a soft landing somewhere in Iran when the fuel ran out?

Fuck it! I’m going to take her high, put her into turbo-prop, and hope to God we can find the tanker. The decision had been made by Quinn. It would be better to crash than be captured.

Barakat’s sweating face was pushed close to Quinn. “Stop trembling, Barakat.”

“Am I friend or foe?” Barakat asked.

“Damned if I know, but your ass belongs to us now. You going to help us get out of here?”

“I try, I try.”

“I’ve got a totally FUBAR display and systems.”

“Try your altimeter,” IV moaned.

Grubb switched the dials on. “Got a reading.”

“Barakat, we’ve got two field compasses and a paper map. The altimeter appears to be working. I am going to fly by the stars. I want you to draw me a flight route for a rendezvous with a tanker at thirty-one-forty latitude and fifty-eight-twenty long.”

“I try, but even if we reach it, how do we contact them?”

“Phosphorous. Take the seat behind me and go to work.

“All hands, everyone in?”

“This is Ropo. All present and accounted for. Ramp is lifted.”

A horrendous shriek from Marsh as his leg was cut away. For an instant the action diminished, then a resumption.

Quinn pitched the blade angles. He wiggled his feet on the rudder controls, daintily almost, as though he were stepping into the batter’s box. He maneuvered the joystick. It felt solid. We’ll find out.

“Barakat.”

“Sir.”

“How high do we have to go to clear these mountains?”

“About nine thousand meters.”

Fourteen thousand feet! It would be borderline on oxygen use. Oxygen would help them now at any altitude. What the hell. No use saving it.

“All hands! This is Quinn. We’ve got every chance in the world to make it home. Prayers will help. Try to stay off oxygen, but use it if you feel like you’re going under.”

Random gunfire popped around the plane. Quinn checked to see if the rotors were properly engaged and whatever preflight instructions he could get from IV, who was sinking and rallying.

Quinn speeded the rotors to maximum, kicked off the hover brake, and reached for the thrust control on IV’s side. He could not properly reach it.

“Jarvis! Crawl in and push the thrust control forward. Try not to touch IV.”

“Aye, aye.”

The SCARAB shot straight up.

“Oh, God, my leg is gone!”

“Quinn,” gasped IV, “trim the nacelle to forty-five degrees…ugh…fool with the blade angle, you’ll hear it when it’s right.”

“Grubb, put my hand on the nacelle or roto-tilt levers.”

“Yeah.”

“This is IV,” he said, with his stomach half opened. “I feel like I’m in good shape.”

The doctor scribbled a note to Quinn. “IV needs morphine.”

The weight of one terrible decision after another fell on Quinn as Jarvis added more bandages to his head. If IV took morphine, IV could go ga-ga and incoherent. On the other hand, IV was going to have to go through excruciating pain without strong medication. Sorry, IV, Quinn said to himself, we need you coherent.

Quinn lifted his hand and gave a thumbs-down to Dr. Wheat.