"EVERYONE HIT IT! WE'RE UNDER FIRE! HIT IT!" Cerro's warning couldn't be heard by the door gunner in the Blackhawk. But that wasn't necessary: seeing the flashes, the door gunner laid his weapon onto them and let go a burst. The first was overline. With a slight move of his wrists, he moved the gun down and began to lean on the trigger, walking the tracers into the target.
Shegayev didn't understand what had happened. Just before he fired, the figure appeared to split in two. He paused for a moment to resight his weapon. His field of vision was narrower. His breathing was becoming harder, more painful. Little time. He knew he had little time. He was almost gone, dead.
There was no time for small targets — too hard to find and aim at. Turning the gun to the helicopter, he didn't notice the first wild burst fired by the door gunner. The second burst landed short initially, throwing up rock fragments and sand in front of Shegayev. The shower of fragments surprised Shegayev, causing him to jerk the machine gun's trigger. He was firing wildly when the stream of bullets coming from the helicopter found their mark. Hit square in the face, Shegayev was knocked over backwards into the ditch. His finger remained frozen on the trigger as he pulled the gun down with him.
"HE'S HIT! MEDIC! MEDIC! I'VE GOT A WOUNDED MAN HERE!" Cerro held on to Kinsly, holding him against his chest. He was afraid to let go, as if his holding him were the only thing that was keeping him alive. The helicopter's crew chief and Sergeant Washington reached the two captains at the same time. Washington took his captain and gently laid him face down onto the ground. The crew chief held Cerro by his shoulders for a moment to steady him, then went around to assist Washington.
Cerro remained sitting there on his knees, watching the two NCOs frantically working on his friend. As the rest of Kinsly's men closed up on the group, the crew chief yelled to them to lend a hand and get the body into the helicopter. Half a dozen pairs of hands surrounded Kinsly and lifted him before Cerro's eyes. Then they were gone.
For a moment Cerro remained there, still on his knees, looking where Kinsly had been. The crew chief put his hand on Cerro's shoulder again. Putting his mouth next to Cerro's ear, he told him that it was time to go.
Scanning to his right, Mennzinger looked for more targets. Acquisition was becoming difficult. The shattered remains of aircraft, large and small, were burning brightly. Here and there rivers of burning fuel ran down the runway and along drainage ditches. Checking his stores, he saw that they still had four rockets and nine hundred rounds of 30mm left. But there was nothing to fire it at. He was about to order Andy to slide over to the left, into another position, when Eagle 6 gave the order to break off and move back to their company rally points.
Mennzinger looked at his watch. It was 0320 hours locaclass="underline" right on time. "Okay, Andy. The boss man has decided we've had too much fun for one night. Let's ease on out of here and go back to checkpoint forty-three." Letting up on the intercom toe switch and depressing the radio toe switch, Mennzinger gave the order to his company to break off and move back to the rally point. He ordered Cat in Bandit 5 to bring up the rear.
By the time he had finished the order, Andy already had backed off of the battle position, swung the Apache about, and was zooming back to the rally point. With a conflagration consuming the airfield behind them and the attack complete, Mennzinger eased back into his seat. He felt drained. With the tension and pressure momentarily removed, there was a feeling of letdown, as if he were going through withdrawal. Looking out of the canopy, he let his mind go blank. In another hour it would be all over. Someone else would fly their Apaches back to Egypt.
Andy keyed the intercom and brought Mennzinger back from his wandering thoughts. "Looks like the Blackhawks are late getting the Special Forces guys out."
Reaching out and grasping the grips on either side of the optical relay tube, Mennzinger pulled himself forward and looked into the sight to see what Andy was talking about. Two hundred meters to their front, at checkpoint 43, two Blackhawks were just lifting off. Mennzinger considered the problem for a moment, then decided it wasn't a problem. Though they should have been gone five minutes ago, they were going now. Whatever it was that delayed them wouldn't interfere with his company. Keying the intercom, he told Andy not to worry about the Blackhawks. They were going. Instead, he wanted Andy to go back to where they had been before the attack and wait for everyone to join them.
Washington and the crew chief worked desperately, fighting a battle both knew they couldn't win. The captain lying on the floor before them had been hit five, maybe six times. At least one lung was punctured, probably both. There was the possibility that his spine was severed. And there was internal bleeding. Blood flowed from his nose and came up in clumps every time he coughed. He needed blood, which they didn't have. He needed surgery, which they, or the people at the refuel point, couldn't do. In the end, what he needed in order to live was a miracle — something that just wasn't going to happen.
Cerro sat on the floor beside Kinsly, holding Kinsly's big black hand in his lap. Cerro's eyes were blurred by tears that would not fall. He kept his thoughts to himself as Washington and the crew chief continued to work.
It was cold. For a moment Kinsly couldn't imagine why it was so cold in the house. He knew he had turned the heat up before he went to bed. He wanted it to be warm when they went down to unwrap the presents. He considered getting up and checking the thermostat but decided against it. He was tired, so terribly tired. He always got that way whenever he stayed up and put his daughter's toys together. Like his father before him, he always waited until the night before Christmas to put the toys together — and like his father, he cursed and vowed never to do it again. But he never changed. Every year was the same. And somehow the smile on his daughter's face when she saw the tree and the presents under it made it all worthwhile. Tomorrow would be no different.
It would be morning soon. He needed to get some rest. Christmas day was always a long one in the Kinsly house. Squeezing his wife's hand, he let himself drift off to sleep.
Washington paused and looked at the crew chief. Picking up Kinsly's free hand, Washington felt for a pulse. There was none. Putting the hand down, Washington felt for a pulse under Kinsly's chin. None. Cerro silently watched as he did so. Sitting up on his knees, Washington leaned over Kinsly's body toward Cerro. Washington wanted to whisper, to tell Cerro as gently as possible; but he had to shout in order to be heard over the noise of the helicopter's engine. "I'm sorry, sir, but he's dead. There's nothing we could do for him."
Cerro looked up, tears running down his cheeks, his chest heaving. "I know. I know."
Chapter 18
Death is lighter than a feather; duty, heavy as a mountain.
Hours of monotonous driving in the dark were about to come to an end for the men of the 3rd Brigade. The distance from their staging areas west of Cairo to their forward tactical assembly area was less than 150 miles. By car, any one of the drivers in the column could have made the trip in a little under three hours. Moving thirty-five hundred men and over fifteen hundred vehicles in an orderly fashion, however, required that some concessions be made.