Men in Green Faces (9 page)

Down. Get up. The drab-green flak blanket was slippery with blood but not his. It felt like his head was exploding with the deafening noise. The bastards! How many? Cliff Robb hit again…and again. Up, hit again. My God, the blood…

“Take care of Robb!” he yelled. “Hold him down, he’s gonna bleed to death. West! Hold down Robb!”

The 60 thundered in his hands. Rockets blasting through their armor plating, through the flak blankets, shrapnel like a blizzard. The Mo’s 60s, ,50s, thundering, the SEALs pouring out everything they had, the sound like no other he’d ever heard. It was so loud, so immense, never stopping. The air shook with it, his skull exploding with it, blood running from everybody’s ears. Blood running, smearing, everywhere. Taylor trying, trying, trying, to stand, sliding back down the blood-slicked flak blanket, trying and sliding, screaming with rage, bleeding. His weapon was blown out of his grasp but he was trying to climb up, pick up another, return fire. Robb, dead-white face under green paint, trying to stand.

“Hold him down, goddammit! Hold him! Doc! Get to Robb!”

Oh, God, oh God, oh God. The shrapnel flying, rockets, claymores…oh, God…the shrapnel. Flak blankets were being blown apart by rocket hits. Inside the Mo like standing in a frenzy of fireworks, a firefight grand finale with bullets ricocheting, a fiery killing display with no end. So many bodies. Wounded, bloody, bleeding SEALs crawling, staggering back up to fire—

Ka-boom!

The claymore concussion slammed him, ripped the 60 out of his hands. He grabbed it back, its barrel red-hot, and squeezed the trigger. She wouldn’t fire! Housing group caved in. Throw it, grab the nearest of the Mo’s unmanned 60s, fed by a five-thousand-round case of ammo. Return fire. Fire! Keep it opened up. Oh, God, Roland! What the hell? Firing his AR-15, so pumped up he was throwing its magazines at the enemy the second he emptied one. Fucking crazy with it…all of them in the purple haze.

The smoke, the smell of cordite, the new 60 slower, firing slower, the nickel gone with his own 60. Doc was treating wounded—there were wounded everywhere—with blowout patches, field bandages, trying to cover gaping bloody holes. Wounded helping wounded. God, the incredible, deafening noise! And the yelling, but only of orders, firing directions, from SEALs. No screams for help, no crying. Silence from the wounded. They knew everybody standing, the SEALs, the crew, had to gain fire superiority, had distractions enough.

Explosions were never-ending. Climb back up, stand, fire. Wounded were holding down wounded trying to get up to fight. Ears aching, bleeding, pounding with the incredible volume of continual firefight, the explosions. The 60 was solid, singing. He saw nothing, saw everything, tried to feel nothing.

Fire, fire, fire…

Then silence. Silence so loud it hurt his head. Eyes stinging with tears of relief, Gene stepped off the bench, breathing hard, heart thudding. Blinking sweat away, he set the 60 down. The Mo was a slaughter scene. He ripped off his shirt, tore strips, tried to staunch Mansen’s bleeding arm, wrap it.

Sea Wolves roared over, above their heads.

God, West’s eye was a bloody hole, flak jacket shredded like spaghetti, so shrapnel-tattered. Wipe the blood away, he told himself. Work fast. Don’t see his pain. There are others.

Punched full of holes, the Mo smoldered. Small fires still burned here and there.

Gene stood up, his breath coming hard. Men lay everywhere. Never had he seen so much blood. The benches, deck, ragged and torn flak blankets covering the inner walls of the boat, all were smeared with blood, the steel deck sticky with it. It seeped, ran from the fallen, staining them and their clothes with dark wet patches. He worked, trying to help, trying to keep them alive long enough to get back.

There were explosions behind them. The Sea Wolves were dumping their rockets, opening up with miniguns—six 60s hooked together—and firing three thousand rounds per minute. He knew their sound.

And the Wolves radioed down, “Cannot suppress fire. Leaving to cover your extraction. Will escort you to Seafloat.”

Gene slid his hand beneath Dev’s neck, lifted his head, and put a folded, torn-off piece of another SEAL’S cami shirt under Dev’s skull, tying it in place with his own headband to make a pressure bandage. Then he left the unconscious PL and moved to the next man. He saw Jim moving, kneeling, directing Alex and Cruz. Their own PL was going from wounded to wounded, slipping sometimes, smearing the blood across the deck. Doc, fast and efficient, gave directions, assistance, as he went. Gene loved Doc. Doc kept them alive, forced them to live, never gave up, would never leave them.

The Mo neared Seafloat at last, barely making it. They’d had their asses kicked and handed to them this time. Gene knew it, knew all of them knew it. A first. Couldn’t believe it, but knew it. He took a deep breath. The dark, acrid smell of cordite lingered in the air. Seafloat. God, he was so thankful to be back. No words for it. The triage, set up, waited for their wounded. Seafloat’s people had listened to the battle over the radio. One surgeon and six corpsmen were standing there—all they had.

Robb, the worst hit, went first, then the rest were lifted gently into waiting hands; then the walking wounded left the Mo. Not until that moment did Gene realize Lima’s squad had not so much as a scratch. Seventeen of the twenty-four men on board the Mo were hit. Hit many times. The remaining seven were all Lima, all his squad. They stared at each other in stunned silence.

Every part of him hurt, the result of being slammed against steel again and again by the endless concussions of exploding rockets, claymores, and grenades. His bruises went to the bone. He could see that the rest of the squad were in no better shape.

Weary, aching, exhausted, but all trained in first aid, they went to sick bay to help the overwhelmed medics. Once there, they were issued probes which they used to locate and extract shrapnel and rounds buried in tender flesh. Medevacs were on their way from Binh Thuy, about an hour’s flight away.

When there was nothing more Gene could do for anybody, he left. Alone, in the late afternoon, he walked past the damaged Mo, between the hootches, and past the cleaning table. Nothing to clean now, with his 60 destroyed, but he’d be checking out a new one, doing modifications, putting another nickel in.

At Seafloat’s edge, he pulled out the little Bible he’d shoved under his Levi’s waistband before tearing up his cami shirt. Head bowed, eyes shut tight, holding the Bible against his bare chest in both hands, he thanked God they’d got back. God, he was sure with his whole being, had been looking over his shoulder and taking care of his squad. They should all be dead. It had to be God watching out for them.

In the waning sunlight, his thoughts were a kaleidoscope of images, sounds. Adrenaline still flooded his system and he swayed in place with it, his fingers clamped around the small Bible that meant so much. Nothing else to hold onto. Not out here.

They went to chow before cleaning either their weapons or themselves. On the way, Jim said the Mighty Mo had taken some thirty rocket hits, many claymore hits, and enemy rounds that numbered in the thousands.

“She’s taking on water,” he said, “due to the inability of the welded seams to withstand an assault like that. They’re pulling her out of action. Word from the MSSC people is that she’ll be taken to Binh Thuy for repairs.”

“Repairs, by God,” Brian said, pulling open the chow hall door. “Some hellacious job that’ll be.”

“Got that right,” Cruz agreed.

Gene followed Doc inside, deep in thought. She’d earned her name, the Mighty Mo, and he would never, ever forget her.

“Another goddamned ball-banger,” Doc bitched, as the squad passed the waiting line and went to head-of-line. “Why me? Why the hell? I’m not even a SEAL, dammit all.” He slammed his still-empty tray against the counter. “I’m a dirty, sore, shakin’ sonofabitch! One
dau-mau-mee
after another. Can’t even go on the Mighty Mo without getting shot at.”

Gene reached back for a slice of bread, and a jolt of adrenaline hit. Right behind him stood Freddy Fanther. The asshole had followed the squad to the front of the line just like he’d been on the op too. Before the realization finished forming in his mind, he hit Fanther. Just nailed him. Had to fight himself to keep from kicking the shit out of him.

“You bastard!” he yelled. But Fanther, bleeding and out, didn’t hear him.

Doc grabbed his arm. “What the hell happened?”

“Punched his running lights out, is what the hell happened. He gets up, I’ll outright put him down for keeps.” He glared down at Fanther. “Jumped to the head of the line with us. Asshole was in line outside the door when we came in.”

He could still feel anger halfway through eating the mound of spaghetti on his tray. He didn’t even want to see Freddy Fanther again. If he came up behind him, the squad would let him know.

By the time he started on his third slice of cake, most of the squad had gone to clean their weapons. He looked up to see Willie taking Brian’s vacated seat.

“Gene,” Willie said, “Sean and I are going in to pull out the new Kit Carson Scout’s family before Colonel Nguyen and his men return to the village. Tong’s agreed to guide us. We’re leaving at 0530. We’re wondering if you’d like to go with us.”

I
T TOOK A SECOND
to register what Willie was saying. Tong’s village…0530 hours…go with them and help. Gene looked at him, nodded. “I’ll see if anything’s happening with Jim, but sure. If he says okay, I’ll go.”

Willie sighed. “Good.” He turned his attention to chow.

Gene smiled. His redheaded friend seemed content. “How much time you have left? Know you’re short.”

“Two weeks.”

“You nervous?”

Willie raised an eyebrow. “Nervous? About what?”

Gene laughed. “Getting married.”

“I swear I haven’t really thought about it much.” He set his forkful of spaghetti back down and was silent for a moment. “I’ll just be glad to get home. Then I’ll turn to Jell-O. I’ll be discharged three days after return. Three days later, on Saturday, we’ll tie the knot.”

“You’ll love it, my friend. Being married is the best thing in my life.” Gene grinned. “You know, I’ll be a daddy in about five months. Going to love being a daddy.” He finished his milk. Tasted so darned good.

“Y’all hoping for a boy or a girl?” Willie asked.

“A boy’d be nice but, man, as long as the baby’s healthy and has ten toes and fingers, I don’t care.” He stood. “Gotta run. Stop by the hootch later, and I’ll let you know what Jim says about tomorrow morning. You want to, you can sit in on the card game. Gotta buy baby a new pair of shoes.”

Willie grinned. “Not with my money. Y’all had better tap another poor boy. Have to save mine for married life,” he said, and slapped Gene lightly on the shoulder.

Involuntarily he flinched. It was the shoulder he’d landed on when the first claymore hit and it hurt like hell.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” Willie said. “Forgot how sore y’all must be.”

“It’s okay. Just a bit tender. Don’t worry about it.” He rested his hand on the back of Willie’s neck for a moment, in reassurance, then went to the hootch to clean up. Good to have a friend. Blessed to have a really close friend like Willie. Lot of good men here, he thought later, looking around inside for Jim, but nobody that he cared for as much as Willie.

He found Jim reading a book. He was stretched out on his rack behind the plywood partition separating the officers, Jim and Dev, from their platoons. Lima and Delta shared the hootch. “So. All right to go?” he asked, after giving Jim the background.

Jim rolled over and sat up, thinking about it. “Yes. Try to get some more info on the colonel. Ask some of the villagers questions. Look around, see if we can hit him when he returns.”

Gene nodded. “Yeah. I will.” He grinned. Jim wasn’t the greatest poker player. “By the way, we’re playing cards tonight. You want to sit in?”

Jim opened his book again. “Maybe. I’ll see.”

Gene left him reading and made his way through the crowded, noisy room to the icebox. A few brews were what he needed, he decided, going down the aisle between Delta and Lima areas. He passed the sides of Roland’s and Doc’s racks. Doc had the bottom bunk, figuring there was less chance of breaking a leg getting out of it. Behind them, next to the wall, Cruz and Alex sat on their respective racks, Cruz on top where he could easily spot the SEALs who owed him. A couple of steps farther on he came to the end of his and Brian’s bunks, situated next to the door. The new 60 hung from the frame of his rack on top.

For a change, nobody sat at the big table where the aisle running end-to-end in the hootch crossed the one from the door. The table in the intersection divided the territory between Delta and Lima. The icebox sat against the wall across from the door. Grabbing four cold PBRs, Gene opened and chugged one before yelling, “Let’s get this card game going. Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”

With Roland and Brian helping, he smoothed out the blanket on a bottom rack. The three sat on one side, with Willie, Doc, and Marc on the other.

“Infant’s gonna have cold feet,” Marc said.

“Not as cold as yours.” Gene looked up into the ice-blue eyes that shocked him every time he saw them. Never would expect anybody with hair as black as Marc’s to have eyes that color, and they were so clear they were like looking through blue-tinted glass. The Eagle’s left shoulder was bandaged clear to his elbow. He’d caught some shrapnel on the Mo that afternoon. “How’s your arm and shoulder?”

“Fine,” Doc said. “I treated him.”

“Dammit, Doc, I can answer for myself.” Marc smoothed a wrinkle on his side of the blanket. “I’m fine,” he told Gene.

“That’s what Doc just said.”

“Well, he doesn’t know. I’m the only one who knows.”

Gene leaned forward. “But he did know, and he said so, and then you said what he said, and he was right, wasn’t he?”

Marc’s eyes flashed. “He did not know. He’s not me. I’m the only one who can know whether I’m fine or not.”

“You’re wrong, man. He knew when you weren’t fine, didn’t he?” Gene took a drink of beer. “Didn’t he? And he’d know whether you were or weren’t fine now.”