There was a moment of silence before Mennzinger switched his radio back to the UHF frequency that the F-111s were on. He hit the transmit switch. "Lone Star One — this is Bandit Six — Lone Star Six went in — over."
There was a pause. "This is Lone Star One — anyone eject — over."
"Bandit Six — negative — SA-Seven up the tail — too low — too fast — over."
"Bandit Six — this is Lone One — thanks, good buddy — good luck and good hunting — over." The voice of Lone Star 1 was no longer that of the cocky Texan, ready to conquer the world. For a moment Mennzinger pitied him. In a few hours he would be knocking on a door in Britain. A woman who didn't know that she was a widow would answer it. She'd probably still be in a bathrobe. On her doorstep would be an Air Force colonel who went by the call sign Lone Star 1. He'd still be in his flight suit. With him there would be a major in class-A uniform and a chaplain. She would know them all. And they wouldn't have to say a word.
"Good luck and safe journey to you, Lone Star — this is Bandit Six out."
Switching back to the frequency his company was on, Mennzinger gave the order to move to battle position COTTON MOUTH and to begin to engage enemy aircraft parked in their revetments. He and his men still had a long fight ahead of them.
The attack on the airfield was clearly visible to the crew and the lone passenger of the Blackhawk headed into the pickup zone at the road junction. From where he sat, facing out the open door, Cerro could see everything — the rocket fire and Hellfire missiles launched from the Apaches and the resulting explosions on the airfield. It was spectacular. Over his headphones Cerro listened to the reports and orders of the attacking Apaches. Their radio traffic was minimal but informative. The Apaches that had spotted for the F-111s had shifted to their next battle position and were in the process of engaging Soviet transports and helicopters on the south side of the field. The company that had taken out the air defense at the beginning of the attack was finishing up the destruction of the fighters on the ground and was shifting its attention to a vehicle park. All seemed in order and going well. Even the loss of one F-111 and one Apache on the run in didn't seem to bother anyone or spoil the success of the attack.
"There they are." With that as his only warning, the pilot jerked the helicopter to the left and began to descend. Cerro looked to see what the pilot had seen, but was unable to. In a minute they'd be on the ground.
The pain shot through Shegayev's body like an electric shock. Though he had no idea what had happened, he knew he was hurt bad, perhaps even dying. Slowly he began to sort out his sensations and his pains in order to determine just where he was hurt and what, if anything, he could do.
As the first wave of pain subsided, he determined that he was lying face down in a pool of liquid. His efforts to lift his head brought a surge of crippling pain. He let out an involuntary groan as his head dropped back into the pool. Some of the liquid splashed into his mouth: the taste was salty and somewhat bitter. And it was warm. The liquid was blood, probably his own. For a second he rested, attempting to catch his breath. Even that was difficult and painful. When he was ready for his second attempt to lift himself, he tried to move his arms and push himself up. It was then that he discovered that he had no feeling in or response from his left arm.
Frustrated, he moved his right hand under his chest and pushed up. Though burning pain racked his body, almost causing him to pass out, Shegayev held on to consciousness and pushed. Like a drunk, he found that movements in one direction were not automatically compensated for by his body. Instead of bringing him up to his knees, the final effort to right himself almost caused him to topple over backwards. That in itself caused a new wave of pain. Still conscious, Shegayev struggled to gain his balance, his right arm flapping and his head gyrating wildly.
It worked. After a moment he settled into his new position. He was now on his knees, buttocks resting on his calves. With his good arm, he felt his left arm to determine how badly it was damaged. At first he thought he was running his fingers through the tattered remains of his blood-soaked field jacket. Still numb from the grenade attack, he froze in horror when the fingers of his right hand came in contact with the upper bone of his left arm. Slowly looking down, Shegayev watched as he withdrew his hand from the mass of loose skin and muscle that hung from his shredded left arm.
The sudden scream of a low-flying helicopter passing overhead drew his attention away from his arm. Looking up, he saw the black whalelike body of a helicopter slow, then settle down. They were back. The raid was over and they were returning. He had to do something. Though he didn't know what he could do, he couldn't simply lie down and die without doing something. He was a soldier, an officer. He had to avenge himself and his dead comrades. Wildly Shegayev began to look about the ditch, not knowing what he was looking for until his eyes fell upon the PK machine gun.
The wheels hadn't even touched down before Cerro had unbuckled his seat belt and crouched at the door. A figure ran from the ditch and began to move toward him. Even in the dark Cerro knew who owned the large frame that was lumbering toward him. Over the roar of the Blackhawk's engines Cerro yelled. "HEY! DID SOMEONE HERE ORDER A PIZZA?"
Kinsly picked up his pace. "Hal, is that you?"
"Yeah, who the hell else would make a delivery in a neighborhood like this?" With that, Cerro was out and running to embrace a man who was more than a brother to him.
Twice Shegayev collapsed from the pain as he dragged himself and the machine gun over to the wall of the ditch. Breathing was getting harder. He had to make an effort to draw in each breath, and each time he did there was a flash of pain. Once he reached the wall, Shegayev set the machine gun up against it, then pulled himself up until his head and chest were over the lip. Leaning his chest against the wall, he reached down with his right arm and pulled the machine gun up and over the lip of the ditch. Carefully he steadied the gun and put himself behind it, pulling the stock up to his right shoulder.
As he sighted down the barrel, he noticed his field of vision was narrowing. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing a trick on him. It seemed to him that he was looking down a long, dark tunnel. Only a small circular vision in the center of the tunnel was clear, visible. As he looked at the figure exiting the lead helicopter, he realized that he was dying. Slowly he was bleeding to death. The dark fringe that narrowed his field of vision was death's shroud closing over him.
In a last, desperate effort, driven by a determination to die fighting, Shegayev put his cheek to the stock of the machine gun. He made one final adjustment of his aim. The figure that had left the helicopter was stopped. It stood, arms held open in the PK's sight as Shegayev began to squeeze the trigger.
The figure racing toward the stationary one wasn't in Shegayev's field of vision.
Arms out, ready to embrace his long-lost friend, Cerro watched Kinsly's face suddenly contort and change. Instead of a wide smile, his eyes bulged out, his mouth gaping as if to let out a yelp of surprise. The chatter of machine-gun fire reached Cerro's ears as Kinsly stumbled forward one last step and collapsed into Cerro's arms. The weight of the big man pulled them both to their knees. As they went down, Kinsly's head came down onto Cerro's shoulder, allowing Cerro to see the flashes of a machine gun firing from the ditch.