Gil got to his feet and staggered forward to help as the pair of Night Stalker helos set down at the mouth of the canyon a hundred yards away. The Cobras reappeared seconds later to stand watch as two more Air Force Black Hawks arrived on station awaiting their turn.
The first Night Stalker crewman to reach Gil was a Master Sergeant that he knew well. His name was Waters, a muscular black man with a bright smile and perfect teeth.
“Master Chief, I’ve got orders to put you and Captain Crosswhite on the first helo out.”
Gil shook his head. “Get Captain Crosswhite out of here. I’m not leaving until the last Tajik fighter is loaded up.”
Waters stepped forward to take a hold of Gil’s arm, not to move him, only to steady him so he wouldn’t fall down. “They’re going, too, Chief. The Air Force helos are responsible for them. Where’s Master Chief Steelyard?”
The last Gil had seen of Steelyard’s body, it was among the rocks outside the canyon. He pointed to the crater at the canyon mouth. “He’s gone, Sergeant… just gone.”
Four army medics were working their way through the canyon, tending to the Tajik fighters who needed it most. Two other medics loaded Crosswhite onto a stretcher and began to bear him out. They could still hear bombs falling in the valley beyond the mountain.
“We’re safe now?” Gil asked, swaying on his feet.
“Yeah,” Waters said, being patient with him, still steadying him to prevent him toppling over. “Ain’t nobody gettin’ back here now. You should come with me, Chief. You’re bad off. I don’t want you dyin’ on me.”
Gil looked at him. “Get those Air Force helos down here, Sergeant. These are my people, and I won’t leave them.” He knew that if Waters decided to pick him up and carry him out of the canyon over his shoulder, there wouldn’t be jack shit he could do about it, but he was determined to use the last of his strength to see his will be done.
Waters got on the radio and requested the Air Force helos land at once.
A badly bleeding Forogh sat on the ground against a rock, a long gash in the side of his face that would take at least fifteen stitches to close. His uncle Orzu lay against him, clutching his chest with both arms, his lungs injured by the blast wave. Gil tried to smile at them and found that he couldn’t, but they smiled back.
“My uncle thanks you,” Forogh said.
Gil felt his eyes fill with tears. “What for?” he croaked.
“He says this battle will be told in the Panjshir for centuries. He says that you have made our clan legend… and that he is proud to know you as a warrior. He says to tell you that you will always be his American nephew.”
Gil’s legs gave out and Waters caught him, lowering him gently to the ground.
“Need another stretcher over here!”
CHAPTER 67
Gil spent the first five weeks after Sandra Brux’s rescue in physical rehabilitation for his broken ankle, the gunshot wounds to his leg, and the knife wound to his lung. His wife, Marie, flew to Maryland to be with him at Bethesda Naval Hospital, where he was treated like any other wounded combat veteran during his stay. No one over the rank of lieutenant ever came to speak with him, nor did anyone from the Judge Advocate General’s Office. Upon his release from the hospital, he was given written orders telling him to report to the Training Support Center Hampton Roads at Virginia Beach, Virginia.
Upon his arrival at Hampton Roads, he was assigned a task of mundane training duties. He was told by his new commanding officer that under no circumstances was he to speak with anyone about the unauthorized rescue mission, and under no circumstances was he to attempt to contact Captain Daniel Crosswhite. He then spent the next three months cooling his heels around the training center, bored to death.
The news of Sandra’s daring rescue had spread like wildfire across the United States, though very few actual details of the operation were released to the public. There were rumors around Hampton Roads of Gil’s involvement, but no one ever had the poor judgment to ask him about it.
Then one afternoon, after his second month in Hampton Roads, the other shoe finally dropped. He was called before his commanding officer and given the news that he and Daniel Crosswhite were to be awarded the Medal of Honor, along with Halligan Steelyard, who would be awarded the medal posthumously. There was to be a ceremony at the White House at the end of the month, during which the president himself would present them both with the award. Gil felt his temper flare, but he maintained his military bearing, snapping to attention and stating respectfully that he intended to refuse the award.
“Oh, you can certainly refuse it,” the Navy commander said, “but you might want to consider the fact that this president now stands poised to win reelection. Do you really think it’s a good idea to spit in his face a second time? Your court-martial has been held in abeyance only because of his personal order.”
That had settled the matter. Gil would have no choice but to accept the Medal of Honor, allowing the president to use him as a prop in his political freak show.
Master Chief Gil Shannon stood in the White House in his Navy dress whites, posing beside Captain Daniel Crosswhite before a bank of photographers. Marie sat off to the side beside Sandra Brux, who had only recently made her first public appearance. Her husband, John, sat on the other side of her. Both were in uniform, and both were smiling. Neither of them had any idea what the charade was really all about. All they knew was that two brave men were about to receive the nation’s highest military award.
Sandra gave him a wink, and he nodded back, feeling like a complete chump to be accepting a medal for getting one of his best friends and seven brave Tajik fighters killed.
Crosswhite, however, was eating it up. He knew the whole thing was a charade, but he didn’t care. As far he was concerned, they’d both earned the goddamn medal, and Steelyard, too. “Why let it get to you?” he’d said to Gil earlier in the day during one of the brief moments they’d been left alone. “The only thing that pisses me off is that Sandra doesn’t get shit for what she went through.”
Gil tried to focus on the bright side. He was still a member of DEVGRU, as far as he knew, and he had been somewhere that no other SEAL had ever been… Iran. Who knew how valuable such an experience might be to SOG in the future? There was also the medal itself to consider. Good or bad, right or wrong, Medal of Honor recipients enjoyed a certain status within the US Armed Forces, and Gil realized there would be ways of using that status to his advantage.
Still, there were jealousies within SOG that he would have to contend with, other operatives who might now try to edge him out of the game. Only time would tell how well he would be received by his peers in the coming months. And only time would tell how willing the Head Shed would be to put a Medal of Honor recipient back into harm’s way.
The President of the United States entered the room and stood before the podium. “Good afternoon,” he said with a smile. “Today, we are gathered to bestow…” And so the brief speech went, and after the president had finished telling the American public what gallant warriors both Gil and Crosswhite were, he stepped from behind the podium to accept the first of two medals from the secretary of defense.
He was about to slip the sky blue ribbon over Gil’s head when he stopped. “You know what?” he said, turning to look toward the honored guests. “I’ve got a better idea. Sandra, would you mind doing the honors?”