“Roger,” Kowalski acknowledged, “let’s see if we can get this old girl to go a bit faster.” She shoved the throttles up.
Sergeant Ray Byers climbed onto the flight deck and stood behind Kowalski. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she asked, amazed to see the crew chief aboard.
“Is this the Marrakech express?”
“You asshole,” she said, suppressing a smile.
CHAPTER 50
The three teen-aged boys crouched behind the plaster-covered rock wall and watched the cloud of dust coming from the airfield move toward them. The wall was set back thirty yards and paralleled the road that led from the prison to the main intersection where the Americans were. By the time the dust cloud reached the prison, they could make out the lead jeep and the two trucks that followed. The oldest of the three told the other two to keep down. Being sixteen gave him the leadership of his small band and he told them to check their weapons. He moved the safety to off on the Heckler-and-Koch assault rifle his cousin had brought home from the Iraq war. The fifteen-year-old clutched his family’s double-barreled shotgun and wished he had the Heckler-and-Koch. The thirteen-year-old had to be satisfied with an old revolver with five rounds.
The boys had listened to the mullah at their school and understood how the cowardly Americans always ran when confronted with the just anger of the faithful. And they were among the faithful. The sixteen-year-old listened, and when he thought the small convoy was almost to their position shouted “now!” and the three boys jumped up and started to fire from behind the protective cover of the wall.
The lead jeep returned fire with the M-60 machine gun mounted on the hood. The gunner in the rear swung his M-60 and raked the wall. A Ranger in the bed of the first truck cut loose with his SAW while another fired an M-203, sending a grenade over the wall. No one had ever told the boys what firepower meant, and they were stunned when the first burst of fire from the M-60 tore the wall apart in front of them.
The thirteen-year-old found himself lying on the ground, covered with pieces of the wall. He tried to crawl over to the other two boys, who were still. But he could not — his right leg would not move. The boy looked down. There was nothing below the knee. He stared at it, not understanding why he didn’t feel a thing, then tried to crawl away. But a pain stopped him. He had never hurt like that before. He slipped into unconsciousness as he bled to death.
The mullah was safe at home.
“Knock it off,” the lead Ranger yelled. “We got ‘em.” The Rangers scanned the wall, looking for movement. Then they were at the main intersection — Objective Red.
Trimler got out of the lead truck and found Bravo Company’s commander while Romeo Team unloaded. They conferred with the squad sergeants and the leader of the jeep teams, then parceled out their remaining Dragons and moved into position. “How long until they get the airfield open?” Bravo Company’s C.O. asked.
“Anybody’s guess,” Trimler said. “But we’ve got to hold here.”
Thunder was working the FM radio aboard the AC-130 and was talking to the RTO at Objective Red. “The Rangers are in position,” he told Beasely. The pilot orbited over the intersection, marking the position of the Rangers. He could see the first of the tank column approaching the low pass that led to the intersection.
“Okay, troops,” Beasely announced over the intercom, “time to rock and roll again.” Each station checked in.
“Captain,” Mado demanded, “what the hell are you doing? We’ve got battle damage.”
“What we get paid for, general. The last hit only got the right main gear. Just a little rubber burning. It’s out now.” Beasely wasn’t paying much attention to the general as he concentrated on setting up his first orbit and sighting on the lead tank. He mashed the trigger, and the plane shook as he sent the first 105 round on its way. In the back a loader had already reloaded and Beasely fired again. “Goddamn,” he yelled in frustration, “those are tough sons a bitches.” He fired again …
“Stand back,” the Ranger commanded as he pulled the ring on the fuse igniter and stepped clear of the cell door. It was the third attempt to blow down the door and he had made each charge progressively bigger, risking blowing down the ceiling on top of them. The sharp explosion filled the corridor with dust and smoke. Their ears were still ringing when they saw the door. It was, finally, off its hinges. Mary quickly pushed it out of the way and went into the cell.
“Doc, oh God.” She was beside Landis. Doucette’s bomb had blown down part of the ceiling onto him. The lower half of his body was crushed under a massive concrete beam that pinned him to the floor. At least he was still alive. She lifted his head. “Doc …”
“Mary, go, get out … I’m not going to make it.”
“No, not without you.”
“Tell my wife—”
“You’ll tell her.”
Landis looked at her. He knew what had happened to him and that his body would fight death for hours. But he also knew without a surgeon and an operating room he was not going to make it. In the distance he could hear cannon fire. “Mary, I’m ordering you to go, goddamn it …”
Carroll reached down and pulled her to her feet. At first she fought him but Mustapha helped and the two men dragged her out of the cell. One of the Rangers came back in and gave Doc Landis a double shot of morphine. Doc understood the Ranger was trying to administer a fatal dose, but it wasn’t enough. He watched the man go before he closed his eyes. And waited.
“I’m slow,” Gregory muttered under his breath. He was watching Scamp 13 run up its two engines, trying to break out of the rut it was stuck in and move clear of the dirt runway. “You”—he pointed to a sergeant—“get the fuel truck and use it like a bulldozer. Get behind the C-130 and push like hell.” He went over to Stansell. “Help’s on the way.” He pointed to the big fuel truck that was nosing in under the tail of the Hercules. The sergeant driving the truck gunned the engine and pushed. The thin skin of the C-130 crushed and buckled but the raised ramp held against the fuel truck’s bumper. The big cargo plane jerked, then at last broke free and moved clear of the dirt strip.
Scamp 15 with its load of POWs and wounded was already moving into position at the end of the makeshift runway. The men on the airfield watched as the pilot set the brakes and ran the engines up to max power. It seemed forever before he released the brakes and started to move. The takeoff roll seemed even longer until the nose gear lifted and the Hercules was airborne, climbing steeply into clear air. Then the plane dropped down onto the deck and arced around the north side of town, heading for freedom. No one at the airfield saw the stream of 23mm high-explosive bullets that reached out to the Hercules, falling short because of the range.
“We just may do this yet,” Stansell said, pointing to Mallard’s C-130 that was coming in to land, and in the distance they could see Kowalski’s Herky Bird approaching. Stansell studied the still burning hulk on the runway. “We can use that fuel truck again — when that baby stops burning.”
Gregory was running back inside the makeshift command post. “Colonel, we got work to do. Time to dry this place up.” Stansell agreed and followed him. In the distance, he could see a truck approaching the field …