Drawing in a deep breath, he ordered the Sudanese lieutenant to pull his platoon back from the left and establish a firing line one hundred meters to their rear. The platoons on the left and in the center, he told him, would break contact and withdraw to the rally point through his platoon, in that order. Once both platoons were through, he would disengage his own platoon and move back to the rally point by bounds. Turning to Jackson, he ordered him back to the second platoon on the left to prepare it for withdrawal. Kinsly himself would move over to the hidden mortar position and direct the crews to lay down a suppressive fire to cover the withdrawal of the second platoon. He told Jackson that when the mortar rounds began to impact, he was to pull out the second platoon.
As Jackson began to leave, Kinsly grabbed his arm. "Is the major dead or wounded?"
"Wounded, real bad."
Kinsly thought for a moment. "Bring him along when you pull out."
Jackson was about to protest but decided against it. There was no need to remind Kinsly that from the beginning the standing orders had been that the wounded were left behind. After all, Kinsly himself had put that word out. The lieutenant, Jackson reasoned, had a damned good reason for countermanding his own order.
Neboatov crawled up and down the thin line of Ethiopian soldiers he was trying to get to counterattack. As he did so, he encouraged them, getting them ready to make one more rush forward. A sudden volley of mortar rounds that impacted right in the middle of their line stopped Neboatov's efforts. All hope of pushing forward and finishing the enemy dissolved as the surviving Ethiopians, exhausted by exertion and fear, scattered for cover. Seeing no hope for regaining control of the situation, Neboatov rolled into a shallow depression and squeezed himself between two rocks. The sudden volley of mortar fire and lifting of enemy small-arms fire could only mean that the enemy was breaking off and retreating. All he could do was wait till the mortar fire lifted and it was safe to come out.
Tired as they were, both Americans and Sudanese fell back at the double, jogging the two kilometers from the ambush site to the rally point. At the mouth of a gorge, Kinsly stopped to count the men as they passed him. He looked each man in the eye as he went by. Some smiled broadly, proud of their achievements. Others, content merely to have made it that far, gave him a simple, almost sheepish smile. A few, barely stumbling along, just looked through him as if he weren't there. Physical and mental stress had taken their toll. As a fighting force, they were temporarily finished, at the end of their rope. Kinsly also watched as two of his A Team moved by him carrying the body of Sergeant First Class Veldez. The body was wrapped in a poncho spotted with dark red stains where the blood had seeped through. Kinsly felt nothing as the pair of Green Berets moved into the covered assembly area and lay the body down. It was a shitty end for a man, but not an unforeseen one. Like everyone else, Veldez hadn't wanted to die, — but he had known, as every member of the A Team knew in his heart and soul, that death was part of the contract, part of the price some pay for being a soldier. For Sergeant First Class Hector Veldez, the bill had come due.
Last in were Jackson and two Sudanese soldiers. They were bringing in the lanky Sudanese major on an improvised stretcher made from two rifles and two field jackets. Kinsly looked in the major's eyes as he went by. Odds were he wouldn't make it; but for some reason Kinsly felt compelled to give him the chance. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could get the major back to the Sudan alive, where he could die among his own kind. Veldez hadn't had that opportunity. Maybe, Kinsly thought, he could make up for that with the major.
He stayed for a minute after Jackson and his carrying party had passed, looking for more men to come stumbling over the rise. But none came. All who were coming back were there. Seventy-two men out of the one hundred and six that had started out twenty-four hours ago had made it.
The firing died away slowly. Neboatov paused, but only for a moment. There was much to do. He needed to reorganize the force, gather and tend to the wounded, and, of course, report. Of three hundred and fifty men who had left Gondar that morning, fewer than one hundred were combat effective. Scores of wounded and many dead were scattered about. All hope of catching the enemy was gone.
Neboatov moved among his men, directing the reorganization of his force and the establishment of a defensive perimeter and ensuring that the wounded were tended to. Years of training and battle experience in Iran had taught him well. Though his mind was numb from the shock of battle, his actions were almost mechanical. He ignored the dead. They could do nothing and were beyond help. Even when he looked at the wounded, he did so through the eyes of a combat leader. Every time he saw a wounded man, Neboatov paused and studied him and his wound to determine whether he could fend for himself and fight if necessary.
That the Ethiopian soldiers, both dead and wounded, were men with families did not enter the equation. There was no time for such thoughts. Besides, Neboatov knew from experience that if he allowed himself to view the carnage laid out before him from a personal standpoint, he would go crazy. He had seen other officers who had let their guard down. Eventually, they had cracked under the strain of guilt, compassion, and pity. A good commander, Neboatov told himself, had to prepare himself, mentally as well as physically. If this meant that he had to steel himself against even the slightest emotion in order to maintain his sanity and proficiency, so be it.
Despite his mental preparation, however, he was not totally devoid of emotions and fear. His experience also told him he had been lucky — extremely lucky: he had survived. But nothing more. There was no glory, no honor, no gains. Only death and the chance to fight again, and again, until one day he led one too many charges. In his mind he knew how it would end.
The traveler was blinded momentarily as he moved from the bright day into the dark corridors of the former palace. His escort was a dirty, heavily armed member of the Islamic Guard. The young man, carrying a Russian-made AKM automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, a 9mm PM pistol in a hip holster, two RGD-5 hand grenades hanging from web straps, and enough ammunition stuffed in ammo pouches to supply three men, led with long, swaggering strides. Muhammad Sadiq was always amused by the young men who loved to show off by arming themselves to the teeth. As he followed, Sadiq smiled and thought to himself, This young lion would be easy to find in the desert. One would only need to follow the clanging of his weapons for the first two hours, then the trail they would leave as he discarded them for the next two.
Sadiq was led into a large outer office guarded by two other members of the Islamic Guard armed in a manner similar to his escort's. Across the room was a huge double door that went from ceiling to floor. Two more guards were posted in front of it. These guards, however, were regular army, whose appearance and bearing were in stark contrast to the Islamic Guardsmen's. Their uniforms fit and were freshly pressed. Their rifles, glistening and clean, were held across their chests at a forty-five-degree angle. The web gear they wore was clean and neat, and contained only two ammo pouches, neatly boxed and arranged. The contempt they held for the young Islamic Guardsman showed in their eyes as Sadiq and his escort approached. Undeterred by their silent rebuke, the young man walked up to them with the same swagger with which he had moved through the corridors, and announced in a gruff and booming voice that an important visitor from Egypt was here to see Colonel Nafissi.
Without a word, the soldier on the left stepped to the side and opened the huge door. The Guardsman also stepped aside and motioned toward the door with his hand. "You may enter." The young man, full of self-importance, no doubt thought that Sadiq had been waiting for his permission to enter. As Sadiq walked past him, their eyes locked. In the young man's eyes, Sadiq saw himself as he had been twenty years before. Sadiq slowed for a moment; then he went in.