Barker’s men had enough of a problem carrying the bodies of Rockingham and Teller the three kilometers to the airfield. The platoon members had constructed two stretchers using rain ponchos and ten-centimeter by three-and-a-half-meter mahogany branches. By snapping two ponchos together, then folding them, they slid the sturdy branches through either side. But it was not so much the physical aspect of carrying their deceased comrades away, but the mental vision of two of their own, brutally slaughtered in a war they never expected. Surprised, shaken, unnerved, his men had handled themselves exceptionally well. He feared though that their adrenaline had been blocking their emotions, and soon fear and unrest might set in. He needed to counter that if it occurred.
He watched as Barker slipped past him in the twilight, moving his men and his “cargo” to a rally point. Zachary saw him coordinate with Kurtz, whose lines he would be passing through. Kurtz had marked a single passage lane and designated his best squad leader to serve as the guide through that lane. Each man in Barker’s platoon had popped an IR chemical light and placed it in the camouflage band of his Kevlar.
Barker’s platoon moved quietly through the center of the patrol base. The other men watched as they saw the civilians, Fraley, Mosconi, and Sergeant Cartwright hobble past. Cartwright made one last plea to the commander to stay, but Garrett told him no. His fever had risen in the last twenty-four hours, and the hot dust always found its way to the most remote parts of the body. Zachary feared infection. He would hate for Cartwright to lose a leg.
Zachary handed the good sergeant two envelopes and told him to get them to the addressees. Cartwright limped back into the growing mob near Kurtz’s position. Soldiers were casually hugging and conversing with Cartwright, who was torn between wanting to stay with the unit and wanting the medical attention that he needed.
Then Fraley came forward in the darkness. Zachary could make out his rotund outline carved against the crazy array of the jungle.
“I just want to apologize,” Fraley said, his head hanging low. Zach figured that it had finally occurred to him that he was dealing with a professional combat unit. They had saved his life, despite his poor treatment of them. During the night in the jungle, alone, apart from his world of Filipino concubines and whiskey, Zach surmised that fat Fraley had suffered “cold turkey” and got some religion. Tough shit. That won’t bring back Teller or Rockingham.
He presumed that Fraley had forgotten that regardless of his position or duty, there was always a soldier out there somewhere, on the ground, holding a weapon, looking through the sight, wondering, waiting, hoping, and praying that someone above him had made the correct call. That someone cared.
Fraley had not. He had gone native, so far removed from supervision or the “real” Army, whatever that was. Zach knew that Fraley had believed he could collect a paycheck, have an adult fantasy every night, and laugh all the way to retirement.
But he had been wrong. Zachary looked over Fraley’s shoulder as Barker’s platoon hoisted the bodies of Rockingham and Teller past him, carrying them into the darkness like a medieval funeral procession. Out of the corner of his eye, he heard Slick mutter, “Son of a bitch,” and saw him turn away.
“Don’t tell me,” Zachary said, staring into Fraley’s eyes. Fraley looked away, down toward the ground. “Tell the families of those two men.”
With that, Zachary walked away and spit into the ground. No way was he going to ease Fraley’s conscience. The whole fiasco might have been avoided had Fraley done his job. But it was too late to think about that.
Barker moved his platoon through the jungle. They had reconnoitered and marked a route to the linkup location during the day. It was a simple matter of following the pre-positioned IR chemical lights.
Barker met with X-Ray, a large man dressed in khaki civilian attire. Barker thought the man looked like a safari hunter, but he had answered the challenge properly and spoke with authority. X-Ray stood at least a foot taller than Barker.
He had a HMMWV with cargo space in the back. The high tarp on the back made it look rather conspicuous, but still concealed the cargo.
“This’ll make everybody but the three hostages,” the man said. Barker looked at him through his glasses with surprise. “They should be here tomorrow morning.”
“What three hostages?” he queried.
“Some guy named Rathburn, a DoD bigwig, and two of his staffers,” X-Ray said, intentionally concealing the fact that he knew Matt Garrett was a hostage for fear of compromising his negotiated release. “Terrorists blew up a DoD plane with a bunch of women on it.”
“No shit,” Barker said, trying to be cool. It was out of character for him, and he seemed awkward saying it.
“You guys did a kick-ass job. That’s what the president says anyway,” X-Ray told Barker. “Now get out of here.” He patted Barker on the shoulder, hopped into the truck, and pulled away, disappearing behind a jagged rise in the extinct volcano.
Barker could not wait to get the message back to his commander. A compliment from the president. That would lift morale. Popping his chest out, he moved his platoon back through Kurtz’s lines, conducting the proper far-and-near recognition symbols with the IR flashlight.
“Way to go, Stan,” Kurtz said, offering a high five. Barker responded awkwardly, but finally felt as though he had contributed to the operation.
“Sitrep,” Garrett said, emerging from the darkness behind Kurtz.
Barker first gave his platoon sergeant instructions to re-form his portion of the patrol base.
“Sir, X-Ray correctly responded to the challenge, and he fit the description you provided. We success-fully transferred all personnel and the … uh,”—he found it hard to say, the reality of Rockingham’s and Teller’s deaths just now sinking in—“along with Rock and Teller, sir.”
“Anything else?” Zachary said, picking up on Barker’s discomfort.
“Well, sir, X-Ray sent a message from the presi-dent.”
“As in president of the United States?” Zachary queried.
“Yes, sir,” Barker proudly responded as the sole possessor of the information. It occurred to him that knowledge really did equate to power.
“No shit!” Kurtz said with much more authority than Barker could ever dream.
“He said we, and I quote, ‘did a kick-ass job.’”
“Son of a bitch,” Kurtz said.
“No shit?” Zachary asked.
“No shit, sir,” he responded.
Zachary immediately had Taylor and the first sergeant move to the command-post area. The CP was located beside a huge mahogany tree. Slick had set up the SCAMP and aimed its antenna to the northeast. Other communications gear surrounded the tree in a weirdly organized fashion. In the darkness, only the white casing of the SCAMP stood out.
Zachary sat in the dirt, facing his three lieutenants and first sergeant. Slick and a couple of the other headquarters platoon soldiers naturally acted like they had something to do near the meeting and listened intently. There was a certain amount of pride associated with hearing the fresh scoop from the commander before anyone else did. Later, they would be able to take the inevitable rumors back down to ground zero and assert that they “were there.”
“Guys, we’ve lost two of our own. I know nothing will ever bring back Rock or Teller. I was closer to both of those guys than any of you will ever know,” Zachary began.
A monkey screamed in agreement from high in a tree off in the distance, adding an eerie quality to Zachary’s gathering. He noticed the dark outline of Slick’s head turn in the direction of the noise, which was followed by another. It sounded like a wounded banshee, lost in the dense jungle.