"Private, listen to me!" Herbert said.
"Sir?"
"Take cover!" he yelled. "Any cover! There's a chance the missile's going to abort in your laps!"
FIFTY-NINE
Mike Rodgers had no desire to watch the B-Team Strikers help the Kurds. They were pulling burning bodies from the hell of the burning headquarters. The Strikers used dirt from the floor of the cave and even their own bodies to extinguish flaming clothes and hair and limbs. Then they began carrying them outside, to the light, where they could be given at least basic first aid.
Rodgers turned his own burned body from the rescue effort. He didn't like what he was thinking and feeling — that he hoped they suffered. Each one of them. He wanted them to hurt the way he did.
The general let his head roll back. Pain continued to flare along his arms and sides. Pain caused by a willful disregard for every legal and moral code. Pain ordered by a man who demeaned his cause and his people by inflicting it.
Rodgers walked back into the cave. He would rescue Seden later. Right now, he wanted to see if there was anything he could do to help take back the ROC. The ROC which had been his to command, which he had lost.
He listened as he approached. There were gunshots, followed by Colonel August counting down. He arrived just as Ishi Honda radioed Op-Center that the ROC had been retaken.
Rodgers faded back against a wall. This was August's triumph and he had no right to share in it. He looked down and listened. He could hear the relief in the voices of the Strikers as A-Team moved in to secure the van. He felt nearly alone, though not quite. As the Italian poet Pavese had once written, "A man is never completely alone in this world. At the worst, he has the company of a boy, a youth, and by and by a grown man — the one he used to be." Rodgers had the company of the soldier and the man he'd been just a day before.
After what was only a few seconds but seemed much longer, Rodgers heard Private Honda call for Colonel August.
"Sir," Honda said quickly, "the Tomahawk may strike the ROC or abort in the cave in approximately forty seconds. We're advised to seek cover—"
"Strikers assemble on the double!" August yelled.
Rodgers ran toward them. "Colonel, this way!"
August looked at him. Rodgers was already running down the other fork.
"Follow the general!" August cried. "Ishi, radio B-team to get down the slope with the prisoners!"
"Yes, sir!"
Rodgers reached the prison section even as they heard the bass horn roar of the Tomahawk racing toward the cave. The general ordered the men to throw open the grates and jump into the pits. He opened Colonel Seden's prison himself, making sure that no one hurt him as they climbed in.
Private Honda was the last Striker into a pit. As soon as he was crouched down, his arms over his head, Rodgers stepped back. He stood in the end of the cave, listening to the bellowing as it grew louder. He felt proud of his countrymen as he thought of the Tomahawk, the result of applied American intellect, skill, spirit, and purpose. He felt that way about the ROC as well. Both machines had worked exactly as they were designed to. They did their jobs. So had the Strikers and he was deeply proud of them as well. As for himself, he would have wished for the blast to consume him, whatever form it took, were it not for the fact that his own job was not yet finished.
The walls and floor of the cavern shook. Particles of rock fell from the cave ceiling. The low thrum of the rocket engine grew deafening as the missile entered the cave.
No sooner had the walls of the main cavern begun to glow with the missile's exhaust than the Tomahawk exploded. The glow became an instant of white light, then a fierce red glow as the roar shook down rocks and dirt. Rodgers clapped his hands over his ears in a failed effort to block out the sound. He watched as flame rolled down the main corridor and fragments of the Tomahawk bounced, skidded, and flew along the cavern. Large and small pieces struck the mouth of the fork and ricocheted off the walls. Some were knife-edged sheets spinning edge-over-edge. Others were clumsy, smoking slag. Most fell to the ground before they reached the pits. One popped the light bulb, throwing the tunnel into darkness. Rodgers was forced to duck and turn his face to the wall, not to escape the shrapnel but to protect his face from a massive fist of heat which pounded him. From the time the intense temperatures surrounded him, it hurt to move and especially to breathe.
The sound died first, followed by the flames. A short time later the stifling heat released him. Rodgers heard coughing from the pits. He stood slowly and walked over.
"Is anyone hurt?"
There were a flurry of negatives. Rodgers reached down and pulled up the first soldier whose hand he could find. It was Sergeant Grey.
"Help the others," Rodgers said, "then put a detail together to find and secure the warhead. I'm going to see about the ROC."
"I think Colonel August already did that, sir," Grey said.
"What do you mean?" Rodgers asked. "Where is he?"
"He didn't come with us," Grey said. "He wanted to move the ROC farther away. He thought it'd give us a better chance if the Tomahawk hit it."
Rodgers told him to help the others out, then jogged toward the main corridor. He took the gun from his belt so he wouldn't lose it.
The cave had resisted the United States Navy's efforts to shut it down. There were chunks of still burning missile embedded in the walls and strewn on the floor. It reminded Rodgers of Gustave Dore's etchings of Dante's Inferno. But the cavern was still whole and still navigable. He turned left, toward the gorge, drawing on the last reserves of stamina to reach his friend.
Rodgers saw the west-side mouth of the cave. He didn't see the ROC. As he came closer he looked out at the thick trees, the surrounding hills, flaming pieces of the missile, and long, late afternoon shadows. He didn't see the ROC. Then he noticed the dirt path which led to the road-cut. The ROC was parked about two hundred yards away. August was running back.
"General!" he yelled. "Is everyone all right?"
"A little scorched," Rodgers replied, "but otherwise okay."
"What about the warhead?"
"I sent Sergeant Grey and a small detachment to look for it."
August reached Rodgers's side. He grabbed his wrists and drew him gently toward the wall beneath the ledge. "There are still some armed Kurds in the hills," he said. He pulled his radio from his belt. "Private Honda?"
"Sir?"
"Let me have Corporal Prementine."
The NCO was on the radio a moment later.
"Corporal," said August, "is B-Team all right?"
"I'm with them now," he said. "They evacuated themselves and the surviving Kurds before the Tomahawk arrived. There were no injuries."
"Very good," August said. "I want you and three other men out here with the ROC on the double."
"What about an HP to find the rest of the enemy force?" Prementine asked.
"Negative on the hunting party," August said. "I want to get the ROC back on the road with everyone onboard as soon as possible. We're getting out of here."
"Yes, sir."
August replaced the radio. He looked at Rodgers. "Let's get you some medical attention, food, and rest, General."
"Why?" Rodgers asked. "Do I look that burned out?"
"Frankly, sir, yes. You do. Literally."
It took a moment for Rodgers to realize what August had said. When he did, he didn't smile. He couldn't. A piece of the process was missing. Rodgers could feel the hole, a void where his pride had been. You couldn't laugh at yourself if your self-worth wasn't strong enough to take the blow. The men walked to the cave in silence.