Sergeant McDermott was not there. Nor was Senator Dayton.
Through gritted teeth, Nick quickly explained that after the first spray of bullets had riddled the chopper, the sergeant and several of the young DoD guys had decided to carry the senator up to the cave to keep him out of the line of fire. They had just come back to get a first aid kit, bottles of water, and other supplies when the RPG had hit. Most of them were killed, Nick said. Sarge was alive but in pretty bad shape. Still, he’d led the survivors back up to the cave. That’s where Marcus should take the Marine on his shoulders, Nick said, then wait there for him. He’d get there as soon as he could. Meanwhile he would stay here and provide cover until his dwindling ammo was gone.
Marcus took the advice—part of it, anyway. There was nothing he could do for Nick just now, and he did need to get this wounded Marine to safety. But he would not stay and wait in the caves. Instead, he promised to be back with painkillers and more ammunition. It took longer than he’d figured to make the climb, however. The terrain was far steeper than he’d expected, and when he got there, he was stunned to find so few survivors. The only passengers left alive were McDermott, the senator—who had blacked out—Annie Stewart, and two foreign service officers. All had been injured in the explosion to one degree or another. One of the FSOs had also been shot and was bleeding badly. McDermott had second- and third-degree burns on his hands and face, but despite his own pain he was doing everything he could to stanch the man’s wounds.
The other FSO was in shock. He was sitting to one side of the cave, shivering and mumbling incoherently. Miss Stewart, on the other hand, was at McDermott’s side. From the looks of it, she actually had some medical training and was presently injecting the FSO with a shot of something. The woman had blood all over her face and hands. Whether it was mostly hers or someone else’s wasn’t immediately clear. She had obviously been hit by shards of flying glass and burning metal. But she was alive, and now she was valiantly trying to save her colleagues.
“I need something for Vinetti,” Marcus said as he caught his breath.
“Painkillers?” McDermott asked.
“Right—something—he’s in bad shape.”
“We don’t have any more,” McDermott replied. “We just used the last of it.”
Marcus asked for more rounds for Nick’s M40 sniper rifle. Again McDermott had to inform him there were none to be had. All their supplies had been on the chopper.
“How soon till reinforcements arrive?” Marcus asked.
“They’ll get here when they get here.”
“Sir?”
“The radio was destroyed in the blast.”
“We’re not in communication with Kabul?”
“No, Lance Corporal Ryker, we are not. Now let me do my job.”
Marcus looked at the FSO dying in front of him. He’d stopped breathing. He was pale. His blood pressure was visibly dropping. They were losing him. McDermott began giving him mouth-to-mouth. Just then, Pete and the surviving Marines from the second chopper arrived at the mouth of the cave. Pete raced to McDermott’s side and took over. His comrades moved to help the others. Marcus said a silent prayer. They needed more than luck to get off this mountain alive. They needed divine intervention.
When he’d whispered an amen, he told Sergeant McDermott he needed to get back and help Vinetti. Sarge didn’t need to be asked twice. He gave his assent, and Marcus raced back down the mountain. As he did, he could see a cloud of dust on the dirt road, approaching from the south. As it neared, he could make out a convoy of a half-dozen white Toyota pickup trucks. Each was filled with Taliban. Their situation, already precarious, was worsening by the minute.
The closest U.S. military presence was at the forward operating base near Kandahar. But that was at least sixty miles away to the south, and it was currently consumed in a sand- and dust storm that could last for hours. Kabul was some two hundred miles away to the north. The closest American aircraft carriers were operating in the Indian Ocean, and that was a good four hundred miles away, maybe more. So who was coming to help them? From what direction? How long was it going to take them to get there? Marcus had no answers, and McDermott no longer had any means of contacting his superiors, much less any friendly forces in the region.
21
Vinetti was lying on his stomach, looking through his scope at the approaching storm.
When Marcus reached him, he didn’t waste any time, just told him the bad news. No morphine. No extra sniper rounds. Then he demanded his friend’s sidearm.
“What for?” Vinetti asked, looking up for the first time.
Marcus set his fully loaded M4 assault rifle down beside his comrade, along with the rest of his own magazines and those he’d grabbed from McDermott.
“What are you doing?” Vinetti asked.
“Just give me your .45,” Marcus replied. “I need to move fast.”
Reluctantly, Vinetti unholstered his sidearm and handed it over, along with the last two mags he had. Then he looked back through the scope. “Good luck,” he said. “Be fast.”
Marcus holstered the .45 and once again began scrambling down the side of the mountain. He could see the Taliban caravan approaching. They were still about a klick and a half away, but they were coming fast. He thought he could beat it, though it was going to be close. Perhaps his only advantage was that he had the element of surprise. Unless they were watching with binoculars, it was very unlikely the guerrillas knew he was careening down the mountain toward them. To be sure, he was kicking up a fair amount of dust. But he was betting that none of it was noticeable given all the smoke from two blazing jet fuel–driven infernos.
At one point, he lost his footing and nearly went down the mountain headfirst. He recovered fairly quickly, but his hands and knees were bleeding and he was covered in dust. What’s more, he’d lost one of the extra magazines he’d been carrying. But there was no time to go back for it. The lead pickup in the procession couldn’t be more than a half kilometer away now.
When he reached the dirt road, Marcus set off in a dead sprint. He was aiming for the burning vehicles. He estimated they were fifty yards ahead. That was only half a football field. He could do that, he told himself. He’d run far longer as a player in high school. His coach had called them suicide drills. He had no idea.
Marcus expected to hear Vinetti open fire at any moment. But he hadn’t started yet, and Marcus suddenly wondered if either or both of his guns had jammed. Focus, he told himself. Focus. Keep moving. Keep running. Don’t look up. Don’t look back. Focus. There was nothing he could do about Vinetti. All he could account for was himself. But that was the problem. He thought he’d been in good shape. The best of his life. But his heart was pounding hard enough to explode at any moment. His lungs were sucking in dusty, smoke-filled air. His body was drenched with sweat. His mouth and tongue were bone-dry. Every muscle in his body was in searing pain—straining, pushing. He felt like he was going to vomit. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. He was almost there, but that convoy was closing in fast.
He reached the first body and grabbed the dead man’s AK-47 and every mag he could find. Slinging the machine gun over his back, Marcus kept moving. He found another body. Another Kalashnikov. More ammo. He took it all. Darting through the smoke and around the flames, he found two more machine guns and then spotted the prize he’d come for in the first place—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher lying on the side of the road beside four charred but usable RPGs. There was only one problem. He was never going to have time to get back up the mountain with the loot. The convoy was less than forty yards away, and they had spotted him.