TOUR OF DUTY: BETTER CIRCUMSTANCES (Part 2)
"Now you must be the thunder and lightning of Desert Storm. May God be with you, your loved ones at home, and our Country." -- General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, USA Commander-in-Chief U.S. Central Command, in a message to the command, 16 January 1991
Captain Ruiz removed his sunglasses to wipe away the sandy film that had accumulated on the lenses, and squinted across the firebase at the small group of men gathered near a deserted Huey helicopter.
Ruiz knew his men. He had personally hand-picked and trained them with a tenacity that had earned him a reputation for being a hard-ass, not to mention an unyielding son-of-a-bitch. Whenever Alberto Ruiz recruited for his team, soldiers rarely volunteered, but the chosen few would sustain no regrets.
It was while fighting under the tutelage of Sergeant Zeke Anderson during his tour of duty in Vietnam that Ruiz had learned how to extract the same respect from his own men that he had bestowed upon his mentor twenty years before. Alberto had learned that compassion for his people was at least as important as an unwavering commitment to the team's success. The result was a style of command that assured that no member of his elite squad would ever request a transfer to another unit, no matter how demanding their CO could be. It had become a running joke that the only two ways of leaving Captain Ruiz's team were by retirement or death, and Ruiz had yet to recruit a man with more tenure than himself.
This trust between Ruiz and his men had led the team to become among the best that the Green Berets had to offer. After years of working together on dangerous and highly classified missions, they had become one of the most recognizable and highly honored A-teams in the Army. They were ready for anything, the more demanding the better, as far as the men were concerned. This gung-ho attitude made it no surprise to Ruiz when he came across his five-man team already assembled and waiting for the sun to make its lazy journey across the afternoon sky.
As the commanding officer approached the group, he could tell by the hushed voices and cool greeting, that the team was not experiencing its normal high, pre-mission adrenaline surge. Ruiz began to wonder if he had some cause for concern.
"Is there a problem here?" the officer asked, hoping that the only problem with his unit was that they were ready to move out but the desert sun was seemingly unwilling to cooperate. "You guys don't need to be at the chopper until nightfall. The air assault won't even begin until dusk."
Sergeant Brice Frankle spoke for the group. "Sir, we were just talking about that training mission that got screwed up a few days ago," the soldier admitted. "You know, the one that got those eight Marines fragged?"
"Yeah, Sergeant," the captain said, unsure where the NCO was headed with his concerns. "I know the incident. What's your point?"
"Well, Sir," Frankle continued, "It's not that we're scared or anything like that, but we were just wondering who's going to be flying our bird and does he have any experience flying in the desert after dark." A beat later, he added the afterthought, "And how come we're using a Huey instead of a Black Hawk?"
Captain Ruiz suppressed the urge to blast the sergeant for contributing to the team's trepidation rather than dispelling it the minute it had been voiced. "It don't matter, Sergeant," Ruiz said putting a calm into his voice that was not necessarily reflective of his mood. "We got a job to do and we got to trust our pilot just like we trust each other."
The captain looked at his men knowing that not since serving under Lieutenant Goldman and Sergeant Anderson at Camp Barnett had he trusted a group of soldiers like he did the men with whom he was about to embark on this adventure. He knew each of them would do his job to the best of his ability and not allow the failed training mission to interfere with their objective. All the same, to lighten the mood, Captain Ruiz added with a grin, "Anyway, we ain't Marines, are we?"
Frankle and the other four men exchanged a look that ended in a collective smile and a "You got that right, Sir."
Ruiz was satisfied that his men were ready, but couldn't help but wish that Lieutenant John McKay could have been their chopper jock on this mission. No one could handle a Huey like Johnny McKay. Ruiz had seen that guy handle night missions over a dense jungle canopy, with snipers taking potshots at him, and never miss a beat. This mission could use some of McKay's arrogance. It was too bad the pilot had taken a bullet in The 'Nam that prematurely ended his Army career. Ruiz would have to trust that there was at least one more chopper jock with McKay's guts that would safely skip his men in and out of the Iraqi bunker.
Without voicing these thoughts aloud, Captain Ruiz walked the few meters over to the Huey and perched himself in the doorway, pulling from his fatigue shirt a map and some satellite images of the bunker. All that was left to do was to wait for dusk and the preliminary air strikes to wipe out the radar towers at the facility where First-Sergeant Taylor and Specialist Anderson were being held hostage.
******************
Marcus Taylor had lost track of the hours, let alone the days. When his body could no longer resist the fatigue, he would sometimes fall asleep while the sun was shining through the tiny window, only to wake up hours later to his room shrouded in shadow. He tried to remember how many nights he had survived, but after the injuries sustained in the bombing, memory and reason were slow to offer any insight. All Taylor knew for certain was that he had been locked up in the small adobe cell for far too long and he was beginning to get pissed.
The conditions were brutal at best. It was hot enough where a blanket would have been useless, but a pillow might have been nice, had the Iraqis thought to offer one. A cot would have been even better. At least they had untied his arms. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. By the second day, boredom was taking its toll on the first-sergeant's already tight nerves. All he had to do with his time was to sit and listen and plan.
Iraqi soldiers came to the room once a day to give him food and water, and to empty the wooden bucket they had given him to use as a latrine. At least he hoped that was the use for which it had been intended since that was how he had chosen to utilize it. If they complained about their task, Taylor couldn't tell, since their words were indecipherable to him and he didn't much care anyway.
The only thing of interest to him during these visits was the AK-47 aimed at his belly. And the key they left dangling in the doorknob.
For the remaining twenty-three-plus hours of the day, the first-sergeant napped, paced his room and cursed the silence. From time to time, he would hear men talking outside of the cell and would stand under the window listening to their foreign conversation. Although he did not understand a word they were saying, he had learned a lot from the sound of the voices.
Taylor had quickly realized that the noise drifting through the open window was coming from above his head rather than from the opposite side of the wall. He also noted that, despite the fact that the opening was high on the wall, he was able to see the shadows of legs as the guards paced their redundant watch. The only conclusion was that the room was at least halfway under ground. The bunker had no doubt been dug into the desert with only a few feet left exposed. This would explain why the room was hot but bearable, even with only the small window for ventilation.
Marcus also deduced that the guards were changed several times a day and that there was only one on duty outside the window at any given time. There would be hours of silence followed by a short discussion of some kind between two Iraqi soldiers, followed by several more hours of silence. Either these guys are really shorthanded, the first-sergeant convinced himself, or they just don't realize that it's going to take more than one jive camel-jockey out there to keep Marcus Taylor prisoner.
He had no idea what to expect from the Iraqis, but being tortured by Viet Cong when he and Johnson had been captured back in 'Nam had been enough to convince First-Sergeant Marcus Taylor that remaining a prisoner of war in this sandy version of hell was not an option. Studying the faded scar on his arm from the cigarette burn given to him by the VC interrogator, Taylor shuddered, suddenly anxious about the welfare of his comrade in this current ordeal.
Specialist Anderson had been removed from the cell for at least a couple of days and Taylor had neither seen nor heard anything more about her. There wasn't much of a rumor mill to rely on for information, but he held on to the belief that she had been taken to medical care and that she would be returned to him in much better shape than she had left.
The question was when? As soon as he could figure out what had happened to the Spec4, they were both out of there.
***********************
As the sandy dunes of Saudi Arabia sliced away at the fiery ball of the setting sun, Zeke Anderson made his way across the foreign, yet somehow familiar, Army firebase. He nodded a friendly greeting to a couple of privates who were headed for the showers. A waste of time, he mused to himself. With this much heat and sand, they'll be lucky to feel clean two minutes after they turn off the water. Discarding the thought for being beyond his concern, the sergeant-major traveled further across the compound, grimacing at the unmistakable stench of the latrines and the equally unappetizing odor of the chow tent. Beyond the tents--he still thought of them as hootches--that housed the troops, Anderson passed the officers quarters and approached the tactical operations center.
Major Goldman was right where Zeke had expected him to be, sitting at a table, compass in one hand, Marlborough Light in the other.
Myron had tried to stop smoking at his wife's request, and when she announced that she was pregnant nearly nine months ago, he had actually been successful...several times. Knowing himself well enough to acknowledge the fact that he would never be able to completely give up the habit, Myron had promised Ri An that he would not smoke in the house or in front of the baby. Since neither of those two conditions applied here in the desert, he inhaled deeply and allowed the filtered smoke to permeate the air.
Myron did not look up when he acknowledged his friend's approach. "You know, Zeke," Goldman said, his voice even, "I still think this is a bad idea."
Anderson smiled. "What's that, Sir? Smoking?"
Goldman hid his amusement. "You know what I'm talking about, Zeke," he said with a frown, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks. Promotions notwithstanding, Myron Goldman forgot to shave almost as often as he purposely neglected the burdensome task.
A good-humored sparkle flashed in Zeke's eyes, and in the dim light of the officer's lantern, the sergeant-major looked twenty years younger than his age would suggest.. "Yes, Sir, I know," he said stepping closer to the table. "But I also know that if General Schwartzkopf gave you half a chance, you'd be jumpin' on that chopper with me."
Goldman snubbed out his cigarette and looked at his friend, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a grin. "You think so, do you Sergeant?"
"Yessir, I do," Zeke confirmed. "And I also know that you wouldn't have come to North Carolina to tell me about Katie being captured if you thought for a minute I wouldn't come here after her my own self. If my little girl had to be taken POW, it couldn't have been under better circumstances. She got herself a good CO."
Myron smiled. "And I got myself a good soldier." A dragging moment passed as both men recalled similar words that had been spoken between them a very long time ago. "And a good friend in her father."
A blush painted Anderson's cheeks and he looked down at his feet. "C'mon, now, Sir," he said, his voice taking on a boyish modesty. "Don't be gettin' all sentimental on me now. There'll be time enough for that over a beer when I get back."
Myron stepped around the table and slapped a hand on the sergeant-major's back. "You're buying, right?"
Zeke nodded. "You got that right, Sir."
Myron picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table and examined its golden contents. "Then make it some more of this scotch and you're on."
*********************
First Sergeant Taylor was looking at the orange and red sky through his bunker window when he heard the distinct sound of the skeleton key being turned in the thick door's oversized keyhole. Why would they put a lock on a bunker?, he thought to himself, as if he had never really noticed the security on the door before. Had they actually planned and expected to take prisoners from the bombing on the caravan? The thought was sobering. How many more cells like this might there be on this compound?
Taylor checked his wrist for the watch that was no longer there, forgetting that it had been confiscated along with his weapon, his wallet and his grandmother's cross necklace. He had once given the medallion away to a shortimer, but when Doc Matsuda's luck ran out during the siege on Firebase Ladybird, Taylor had reluctantly taken it back at Sergeant Anderson's insistence. The charm had never since failed to keep Marcus safe in battle, and it's loss now was disconcerting if not downright frightening.
"Damn!" he swore, making a pledge to personally kick the butt of whomever it was that had helped himself to his personal belongings. "You can take my rifle and my watch, but give me back my Grandma's good luck charm."
As the crusty doorknob began to turn, Marcus returned his concentration to the door.
Crouching against the wall, the first-sergeant prepared himself for the assault, but the door was flung open with such a force that he had to leap away from the wall to avoid being knocked off of his feet. "Watch it!" he cried, barely maintaining his balance.
At the same moment, he heard a woman's voice echo his words. "Watch it!" Specialist Anderson snapped as she was pushed into the room. She was on her feet looking to be in perfect health except for a small cut on her cheek and some scrapes and bruises on her arms.
One of the guards blurted out some angry-sounding words and exited the room, slamming the door behind himself.
"Yeah, well same to ya, buster," Katie spat, struggling to untie her hands that were bound behind her back. Suddenly aware of Taylor's presence, she straightened her posture and attempted to regain her composure. "First-Sergeant," she said, turning her back to him. "I don't reckon you'd mind untying these would you?"
Marcus held his ground, studying the young woman. A few days ago, she appeared to be on death's front doorstep, and here she stood, making demands and sassing at the guards like she owned the place. "Specialist," Taylor said, "would you mind telling me just what the hell is going on here?" He began fumbling with the knots binding her wrists, wishing like hell that he had a knife.
"Well, now, First-Sergeant," Katie said with a slightly condescending tone to her voice, her southern drawl punctuating her annoyance at having to explain herself to the NCO. "You know that as prisoners of war, our first duty is to try to escape." Taylor said nothing, but the stern look in his dark brown eyes spoke volumes and Anderson hastened to continue. "Well, it's easier to escape if you know where you're escaping from. You can find out a lot when the enemy thinks you're pretty much dead."
First-Sergeant Taylor looked stunned. "You mean to tell me you were faking it?" he asked, releasing the loosened rope to allow Anderson to finish unwrapping the binding on her own. "I don't believe this. You left me sitting here worrying about what happened to you for God knows how long and you were faking it?"
Katie tossed the rope to the ground. "You got that right, First-Sergeant," she replied, a smug look of satisfaction settling itself into her dark blue eyes. "Well, mostly. I did have one hellava headache." Anderson paused to adjust the dark brown bandage wrapped around her head. "Do you know they don't have any aspirin around here?"
Taylor looked at the specialist and frowned. "Great. Of all the people in that convoy, I had to be taken POW with Rambo."
****************
All that remained of the sun was a bright red halo that hovered in the western sky beyond the dunes. Alberto Ruiz sat in the helicopter watching with interest as the setting sun was slowly replaced by a dazzling full moon. He contemplated the impact that it would have on his mission. Unfiltered moonlight could illuminate the horizon as brilliantly as a million candles, and although this would no doubt help their pilot to navigate at night, it would also help the Iraqis to see the bird coming. A mixed blessing indeed. In the end, Ruiz decided he would rather have the extra light than to fly into the bunker completely blind.
"Ready to go, Captain?" Major Goldman asked as he and Sergeant-Major Anderson approached the chopper pad, startling the captain out of his meditations.
Ruiz hopped out of the passenger compartment of the Huey and offered a quick salute to the commanding officer. The grin that was a staple of Alberto Ruiz's self-assured expression spread across his face. "That's right, Sir. Eager to get this over with," he declared, surprising neither Goldman nor the sergeant-major.
Myron's smile faded as he prepared to launch this small group of soldiers into the first preemptive strike of this prelude to war. "Captain," he said somberly, "the bombers are on their way. It's time to saddle up."
"Roger that, Sir," Ruiz said, waving to his team to follow the boarding pilot and copilot into the helicopter.
As the men made their way into the chopper, Goldman offered his final instructions. "The bunker is 10 klicks north of the Kuwaiti border, just outside Al Wafrah. Your flight should take about 30 mikes. By the time you get there, the air strikes will be complete and the stealth fighters will clear out. Without their radar towers, the Iraqis shouldn't even know you're there until they hear you coming." He glanced from man to man, allowing his attention to linger on his best friend. "There are eight bunkers in the complex. Take them out, get Taylor and Katie and get the hell out of there. Body count is not a factor. Is that clear?"
"Roger, Sir," Captain Ruiz responded on behalf of his team. "In and out, Sir. We'll be home for breakfast."
Zeke grabbed Goldman's hand and shook it vigorously. "I hear that, Sir," he said, and with a wink, he added, "Make mine bacon and eggs."
With that, Sergeant-Major Anderson hopped into the Huey's passenger compartment and plopped himself in the doorway, feet dangling, his rifle cradled in his arms. Ruiz jumped in last, took his place behind the pilot's seat and tossed a lazy salute in Major Goldman's direction.
"See you on the flipside, Myron," Anderson called with a grin and seconds later, the Huey disappeared into the twilight.
****************
"Well, Specialist, what did you find out?" First-Sergeant Taylor was anxious to learn anything new that might help him to devise a plan for their escape. Since Anderson had been beyond the cell, she was his best hope for intelligence.
"Not much, First-Sergeant," Katie advised, pacing the pitch black room, consciously counting the distance between the walls. When she inadvertently kicked over the latrine bucket, she stopped pacing and grimaced as the liquid sloshed onto her boot. "That is a disgusting smell," she blurted.
Taylor frowned. "Would you please try to focus, Specialist?"
Katie lifted the bucket by the handle and moved it in front of where she knew the door to be, intending for it to become a booby trap for any Iraqi soldier who might decide to visit them during the night. Satisfied with her handiwork, she continued her debriefing to the first-sergeant. "They took me to a bunker on the other side of the compound. I couldn't see how many bunkers there are because they're all dug into the ground, connected by trenches. It's the weirdest thing. I'll bet from the sky you can't even tell there are buildings here, just trenches that lead to nowhere."
"This whole damned desert seems to lead to nowhere," Taylor hissed. "How many troops did you see?"
"No more than twenty-five," Anderson announced, completely sure of her response. "From where they had me, I could see their morning roll call or whatever it is they do. The room I was in had a few pieces of furniture and I was able to get a good look out the window if I stood on the table. Anyway, there is really only just a handful of men out here. A supply truck came in yesterday and rotated some of the troops, but I never counted more than twenty at a time. I figure even if there are a few guards that are left in place during these assemblies, there still would only be about twenty-five, thirty at most."
First-Sergeant Taylor couldn't say he was happy with these odds, but they were certainly better than he had anticipated. His mind started sifting through various scenarios that might lead to escape when he suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of American bombers in the distance. Within seconds, a siren screamed through the night and Iraqi commanders could be heard barking out orders to surprised sentries.
Before either Taylor or Anderson could react, a violent explosion rocked the compound and the clay walls of the cell dropped a heavy cloud of dust into the stagnant air. Reacting against the possibility of a cave-in, the two soldiers tossed themselves to the ground and quickly rolled to the wall under the window, expecting that if the roof collapsed, it would happen in the center of the room.
Another explosion shook the ground with the potency of an earthquake and Taylor instinctively threw himself over his subordinate, draping his arms around her body to protect her from the falling debris. Anderson threw her own arms over her head and yelled over the pandemonium, "I do hope you're not getting fresh now, First-Sergeant!"
Marcus could hear the humor in her voice and countered evenly, "Not a chance, Specialist. You ain't my type."
A third detonation came and with it, the deafening roar of the F-117s that were passing over the compound. The soldiers could no longer hear the cries of the Iraqis, only the thunderous noise of the approaching aircraft. The planes did not drop another bomb as they passed over the facility, but the vibration from their engines rattled the bunker with such force that the ceiling finally gave way and collapsed.
Large pieces of sand-covered clay smashed to the ground while bits of rock and dirt ricocheted off the walls, pelting the prisoners with the force of bullets. They moved themselves further into the seam between the wall and floor, praying they would not be crushed under the falling fragments of rock and clay.
Taylor cried out when a very large chunk of ceiling landed just inches from his torso and teetered ominously on its edge before toppling over and wedging itself against the wall. Remarkably, the stone became instant protection for the soldiers as the rest of the room collapsed around them.
Within minutes, an eerie calm fell in place and the only sound Taylor could hear was the labored breathing of his comrade. Still lying on top of her, he gave the specialist a brisk shake and called to her, "Anderson. You all right? Talk to me."
"I'll be much better, Sarge," she coughed, "If you'll get off of my back."
Before hoisting himself off of her prone body, Taylor looked past the shield of the fallen ceiling and was relieved to find that they had not been completely buried in the rubble. Enough moonlight penetrated the ruins so that he was sure they would be able to dig their way out, even with nothing more than their hands with which to work. Moving out from under the rock was not easy, but Marcus managed to back away from the wedge and then helped Katie to work her way free.
It only took a few minutes for the first-sergeant and Specialist Anderson to find themselves standing on top of the pile of destruction.
"Come on, Specialist. We gotta get out of here," Taylor ordered. "Something's up and we don't need to be sticking around here to find out what it is."
"Roger that," Anderson confirmed. Before heading to the side of the room where they would easily be able to climb away to freedom, Katie bent over and picked up an AK-47 rifle that was still clasped in the hand of a dead Iraqi soldier who had apparently had the misfortune of being on top of the ceiling when it had collapsed. She dug in the debris around the dead man some more and pulled out a very large knife. Tossing the rifle to the first-sergeant, she said with a twinkle in her eye, "Lock and load, Sarge. It's gonna be hot out there!"
******************
Zeke's heart raced as the Huey approached the landing zone. Small fires lit the ground enough so that the soldiers on the chopper could see the shattered remains of the in-ground bunker system. A few bodies dressed in cream colored clothing and black head wraps were scattered near the ruins of the radar tower, while other soldiers scrambled for position against the approaching helicopter.
Captain Ruiz lifted himself into a low crouch and leaned forward, waving his men into a huddle. "All right you guys. This is it. We're going in hot. Finkle, you and the team got to go in and blow up as many of those bunkers as you can, but make sure they're clear before you frag them."
By "clear," Anderson knew that the captain was talking about the two American POWs. Zeke winced at the thought of his daughter being killed by friendly fire but said nothing as Ruiz continued issuing his instructions.
"Sarge, you're with me. Intelligence has the prisoners in a bunker at the far end of the compound, furthest from the radio transmitter. The chopper will drop off the team here and skip us on over there. Unless they moved them, we should have no trouble getting Katie and Taylor out of here."
Zeke nodded. He admired Ruiz's composure and ability to issue orders. The boy done good, the sergeant-major thought with pride.
Before the thought was a memory, the chopper descended and the five men comprising Captain Ruiz's A-team jettisoned from the belly of the aircraft. They met with immediate resistance but their attack was swift and complete and Anderson could see some of the Iraqi soldiers running into the black void of the desert. It was an impressive display of military tactics that allowed Zeke to turn his focus to his part of the mission.
"Ready Sarge?" he heard Ruiz call over the noise of the blades. "Just like old times, Man!"
In that instant, Anderson felt more alive than he had in years. The surge of adrenaline that flowed through his veins awoke every nerve ending and his heart was pounding with fear and excitement. "You got that right, Sir," he yelled back as he readied himself for the hot landing. "Just like old times!"
***************
The only thing Major Goldman hated more than having allowed Zeke to go on this mission was the radio silence that he had been forced to order until the attack had terminated. Being out of the loop made him feel utterly useless and he had nothing to do but pace the TOC and smoke another cigarette.
"Come on, damn it. Break squelch." He was talking to nobody and did not expect an answer, but he was awarded a curious look from his radio operator. Specialist Jack Menendez quickly averted his eyes when Goldman shot the man an irritated glare. "Just let me know when you get them, Menendez, all right?"
"Yes, sir," the RTO replied and returned his attention to the silent radio.
****************
First-Sergeant Taylor climbed out of the bunker first and reached down to help the specialist over the wall. They took only a moment to survey the immediate area and leaped into the nearest trench. It was void of any activity, most of the commotion appearing to be taking place on the other side of the compound where the fires were concentrated. Without a well-devised plan for escape, Taylor scratched his head and tried to think.
They heard the approaching Huey before they saw it and ducked further into the trench to avoid the swirling beads of sand. "That's got to be one of ours," Taylor announced, squinting into the darkness. "Come on. We got to get over there."
Katie replied by using the strength of her arms to hoist herself out of the trench and sprinted across the compound, ducking behind the elevated ceilings of the bunkers to hide herself from any enemy troops that might be in the area. Taylor followed suit and came up alongside the spec4 as she looked inside the window of a deserted bunker.
"Hey, Sarge," she said peering into the darkness. "I think I see some weapons in there. At least one AK-47 and maybe a pistol. Maybe we should go get them."
Taylor frowned, torn between retrieving the arms and making a run for the chopper. "We got one rifle, Anderson We don't need no more. Let's go."
Katie hesitated. "Are you sure? We stand a better chance if we get more firepower."
"We stand a better chance if we get the hell out of here. Now, come on."
Disagreeing but unwilling to disobey the order, Anderson fell behind the first-sergeant and together the two made a run for the hovering aircraft. Captain Ruiz was in the doorway manning the machine gun, but it was the sight of the other soldier crouched in the hull that stopped Marcus Taylor cold.
"Sergeant Anderson?" he said too quietly for anyone to hear but the young woman running up behind him.
"Specialist Anderson," Katie corrected as she shot past him. "What are you stopping for, let's go!"
When the first-sergeant failed to move, Anderson turned around and for the first time looked at the man hanging out of the door of the helicopter. "Daddy?" she screamed, startling Taylor out of his trance.
"Daddy?" He looked from sergeant-major to specialist and back again and his eyes widened in disbelief. "Katie?"
"Come on you two!" Zeke cried, cognizant that the Iraqis were not about to allow the Huey's presence go uncontested for much longer. "This ain't no time for a family reunion. Get your butts on the bird now! Move It! Move It! Move It!"
Taylor and Anderson wasted no more time. They ran as fast as they could and Zeke jumped out of the aircraft, reaching forward as if his outstretched hand could encourage the two POWs to run faster. When they were less than twenty meters from the Huey, Captain Ruiz opened fire on his machine gun, blasting the area behind the escaping prisoners.
Katie dropped to the ground first, followed instantly by Taylor. Zeke pulled an M-16 off his shoulder and aimed it into the shadows at the flashes coming from the barrels of several AK-47 machine guns. It was impossible to see how many Iraqis were firing at them, but Zeke was confident that there were no more than two or three. He knew from experience, though, that it only took one enemy bullet to shoot a man dead and they had to move quickly before somebody was lost to this battle.
Diving to the ground, Zeke rolled across the sand toward his daughter. Taylor had turned onto his back and was firing his stolen weapon at the Iraqis, but after only a few rounds, the clip ran dry. Taylor flung the rifle into the sand, cursing every sand-nigger on the planet as well as their useless commie weapons.
Giving cover fire from his new position, Sergeant-Major Anderson ordered Taylor to get his ass over to the chopper. "Go, Taylor! Now! Go! Go! Go!" Zeke yelled, pounding the shadows with as much firepower as the burst of an M-16A2 would allow. As Marcus dove into the relative safety of the helicopter, Zeke Anderson could hear the pilot screaming to Ruiz that he needed to take off before the chopper was hit, but the captain held his ground, pulling rank to keep the bird hovering.
"Come on, Sarge," Ruiz yelled. "I can't order this guy to keep us on the ground forever. Let's go!"
Ignoring everything but his daughter and the empty clip of his M-16, Zeke looked into the reflection of his own eyes and asked. "You okay, darlin'?" Without conscious thought, his hands found a fresh magazine in his flack jacket and he quickly worked to replace the clip.
Katie looked at her leg and frowned. "I think I'm hit but it ain't bad. I can run."
Snapping the magazine in place and hitting the bolt release, Katie's father smiled. "Then I reckon you best get on with it, Girl." In a swift motion, Zeke grabbed Katie's upper arm in his large, strong grip and lifted her off the ground. Pushing her toward the helicopter, he turned and aimed his M-16 to pummel the blackness with an explosive volley of cover-fire. Time seemed to stand still as the rapid exchange of firepower split the night.
After grabbing Specialist Anderson's hand and pulling her into the Huey, Ruiz joined in the assault, unaware that the chopper pilot had begun to lift the craft out of the line of fire.
"No!" Katie screamed. "No! You can't leave! Daddy's still down there!"
Taylor grabbed the soldier by the waist and pulled her further into the belly of the bird. "We ain't goin' nowhere, Specialist. I promise you that." Trying to control his fear and anger, he looked at the captain, his eyes pleading for mercy for their friend. "Ru?"
Within seconds, Ruiz was in the face of the pilot demanding that he turn the Huey around. Before the first-lieutenant could comply, a round from an AK-47 found its way into the cockpit and sliced through the pilot's helmet, grazing his temple. The blow rendered the man unconscious and the copilot suddenly found herself responsible for the fate of this mission. Before the commanding officer even needed to transfer his order, Lieutenant Emily Lawson had turned the helicopter around and was headed straight into what she believed should be a hot LZ.
They knew the mad minute was ended before they even hit the ground.
The lights from the Huey illuminated what the moon no longer could. Billowing black smoke from the dozens of fires enveloped the ruins of the bunker complex in an eerie gaseous shroud. Katie leaped out of the helicopter before Lieutenant Lawson could settle it into the dirt and slow the spinning blades.
Taylor gave the commanding officer a worried look and grabbed a combat lifesaver bag that was laying on the floor of the cockpit between the seats. He opened the bag and tossed some gauze to the lieutenant so that she could tend to the pilot's injuries, and jumped out after Specialist Anderson. Captain Ruiz grabbed the radio to call in the situation report to Major Goldman.
The news would not be good
******************
"Grover six to Big Bird six. Come in Big Bird."
"Grover six this is Big Bird. Sit-rep. Over!" Major Goldman threw his cigarette to the ground and watched the RTO extinguish it into the dirt. Radio silence had been broken. It was over. One way or the other, it was over.
"Big Bird six, mission accomplished. We have recovered Bert and Ernie. Say again, we have recovered Bert and Ernie."
Goldman heaved a sigh of relief. The POWs had been found alive and well and both had been rescued. He looked at Specialist Menendez and nodded, his lightened mood exaggerated by a large, toothy grin. His first mission of Operation Desert Shield had been a success and he had kept his promise to Zeke to bring the sergeant-major's daughter home alive. It was a great feeling and Myron was looking forward to sharing that scotch with his friend more than ever. "It's on me this time, my friend," he declared aloud to the confusion of his RTO.
"Sir?" The voice of Captain Ruiz shattered Myron's short-lived reverie. "We have a casualty."
******************
By the time Taylor made his way across the landing zone, Katie was already kneeling with her father's head cradled in her arms. Taylor could see black pools of blood expanding across the sand and Zeke's chest was covered in gore. The fallen soldier's body was trembling with a ferocity that horrified the first-sergeant as he scrambled to find an IV and gauze in the CLS bag.
"It's OK, Sarge," Taylor said as he began administering aid. "We'll get you fixed up real quick. Don't you worry about that." His words promised what his eyes could not.
Zeke lifted a bloody, shaking hand and rested it on Taylor's wrist. Marcus stopped working and looked into the sergeant-major's tear-filled eyes. Anderson tried to say something, but his words were choked away by a sickening gurgle followed by a furious stream of congestive coughing.
Katie turned her father's head and allowed the blood to trickle out of his mouth, leaving a crimson stain on her lap. Watching the life ooze out of her beloved father's body was unbearable, but she tried to remain strong, refusing to allow him to see her cry. Katie removed Zeke's headband and ran her fingers through his thick black hair. She loved how there was just a hint of gray at his temples. How handsome he was to her. "I love you, Daddy," she whispered, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
"I love you, too, Katrina." Zeke's words were barely audible as he struggled with every breath. He lifted his hand and wiped away the single tear that escaped his daughter's eye. "Don't cry, now, Girl," he choked. "It...don't mean... nothin'."
As the men of Captain Ruiz's A-team made their slow walk across the compound to join their leader at the helicopter, Zeke Anderson...sergeant-major of the United States Army, veteran of the war in Vietnam, devoted father, loving husband, cherished friend...closed his eyes and drifted away.
***************
Major Goldman held the radio headset to his ear for a long time after the conversation had ended, as if he thought that by not breaking the connection, he might change the tragic news that had just been delivered. After several long minutes, he dropped his hand to his side, still grasping the headset. His eyes held a glassy, faraway look as he gazed around the TOC. He saw and heard nothing, trying only to comprehend what Captain Ruiz had just told him.
"Sir?" Spec4 Menendez said again, needing to get the major's attention.
Goldman stared through the RTO. Zeke Anderson was dead. His oldest and dearest friend, gone forever. Had they even said good-bye?
"You have a call, Sir." Menendez held out the receiver.
Myron's face was expressionless. "I don't want to talk to anyone right now, Jack. Whoever it is, tell them to go away." Goldman reached in his pocket to retrieve a cigarette, but before he could light it, he snatched it from his lips and crushed it in his shaking palm. He threw the pulpy mass of paper and tobacco to the ground in disgust and rubbed his burning eyes.
"Sir, you should take this, now." Menendez insisted, handing Mryon the headset. "They say it's important."
Myron grabbed the receiver and slammed it to his ear. "What do you want?" he snapped into the phone, unable to hide the wave of emotion that was swelling within him.
"Major Goldman, is that you?" Danny Percell's excited voice responded from the other end. "Sir, it's Percell. I'm here with Ri An."
Ri An. Myron's wife. How he wished he were with her at this very moment. He needed her strength and her courage. They had met during Goldman's first tour in Vietnam and they had married in the ruins of her burned-out ville. She had survived so much, and she had helped to guide Myron through his own bitter losses. My beautiful Ri An, he wondered, how will I ever overcome this?
"Is she all right, Percell?" Goldman asked into the phone, suddenly aware that the Red Cross would not have called halfway across the world if it weren't an emergency.
"Right as rain, Sir," Danny announced with glee. "You're a daddy, Myron. She had a little boy. Six pounds, four ounces. Congratulations!"
For the second time that night, Myron Goldman stood in silence, unable to speak to the voice on the other end of the phone. He dropped the headset to the ground and began to cry.
*************continued with the conclusion****************