"Buckwheat!" Rattus called, "get . . . "
He didn't bother continuing as Buckwheat had slumped forward onto his right shoulder. The medic's nose was assailed by the smell of blood and shit. Rattus aimed for the field and drove like a madman.
D-Day, Airfield, Five north-northeast of Nugaal, Ophir
Between Dayid's extended family, the liberated slaves, his own people, and the translator's body, Terry had eighty-nine people to shove, somehow, onto two helicopters.
He had one of his people, Graft, explaining through the remaining translator what they had to do. That wasn't a problem- "No water, no food, no baggage, no arms, no . . . "-until he got to the real stickler- "and get rid of any clothing that isn't absolutely essential to minimum modesty. That means shorts, ripped off skirts, and bras; no more."
When the people, other than the troops and the liberated slaves, began to rise in protest, Terry said, "Mr. Dayid, please go and explain to your relatives that they either do what they are told or they get left behind to the tender mercies of your clan chief while we do whatever it takes to extract the necessary information from you despite what will happen to them."
"Yes, sir," Dayid said, then hurried over to calm his people down. He must have been persuasive, because the men began removing trousers and robes as the women began to strip.
Venegas was on the radio to higher. Two of Terry's men had had to go and bring him in, but he could still run communications well enough.
"Two choppers inbound in five, Terry," Venegas said, his voice a study in nausea-induced weakness.
"Start splitting them into two groups," Welch ordered. "By weight, best you can judge it."
D-Day, Bandar Qassim Airport, Ophir
Hampson slammed on the brakes not far from where the medevac CH-801 had touched down. He didn't bother with lights; the entire field was still well lit by the hulks of burning aircraft.
As soon Hampson's feet were on the ground he was checking Fulton for vital signs. Weak, fast pulse . . . but at least he's still alive. A bullet cracked overhead, precluding any more careful diagnosis and all chance at treatment. He pulled the unconscious man out of the back, slung him over a shoulder, and began to race for the waiting plane.
Biggus Dickus met him halfway there. "Where's your wounded Brit?" he asked.
"Back of the Hummer," Rattus shouted, as the two passed by each other. As soon as Hampson was at the plane, he dropped the small ramp that made up the lower half of the tail and pulled out a low wheeled stretcher. He laid Buckwheat on it as carefully as possible, then pushed the stretcher in. He managed to lift the ramp and secure it by main force, then got into the plane himself and started digging frantically in its medical kit for an oxygen mask, a syringe, and drugs to keep blood pressure up. Bandages could come later.
Biggus came back and tossed Vic Babcock-Moore into the passenger seat next to the pilot. Vic groaned with the pain.
"Get the fuck out of here," Thornton shouted at the pilot, who nodded and began letting go the brake.
"What about you?" Hampson asked, as he affixed an oxygen mask over Buckwheat's comparatively pale face.
"I'm just an old ex-Corpsman. You're an SF medic. I'll get the next lift." Biggus slapped the side of the aircraft. "Just go."
Before Rattus could answer, the plane was surging down the runway, flanked by the burning wrecks of the Ophiri proto-Air Force. In moments, mere moments, it was airborne with the field and the wrecks rapidly receding below. Rattus looked behind the plane and saw some bright green streaks racing for heaven.
Already one of the gunships, covered by the other circling overhead, was landing to continue the pickup. It would follow the coast, to continue its original mission, while the dustoff risked its wings heading directly back to the ship at a speed that, strictly speaking, was not good for the plane.
About halfway back, with the coast visible in the distance, Buckwheat's body began to thrash uncontrollably. It went limp again as Rattus began applying CPR, though this was difficult in the closed and awkward confines of the plane. When Hampson finally gave up, and it was the radical drop in body temperature more than any other factor that made him decide it was hopeless, he said, with tears in his eyes, "We're all glad your multi-great granddaddy got dragged onto that boat, too, Master Sergeant Fulton."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mama, just killed a man.
Put my gun against his head
Pulled my trigger; now he's dead
-Freddy Mercury, Queen, "Bohemian Rhapsody"
D-Day, Yemen
Lada knew the way. More than that, she knew the best way to get from the wall into the house without being seen. That way led a short distance along the wall, to a set of concrete stairs leading to the ground. At the base of the stairs all was shadow, under the parapet. This they followed, Musin lugging one leaking corpse and Kravchenko the other, to a noisy heat pump under the wall. There they dropped the bodies. Galkin and Litvinov, holding the dead guards' rifles, were left behind, manning the wall to cover the eventual retreat.
Covered by the heat pump's thrumm, Lada explained the next step. "There, through that door," she pointed across a shadowy way, "is a long corridor that runs all the way through the house. Halfway there's a side branch to the right-"
"What's down there?" Konstantin asked.
"Servants' quarters," she said, then amended that to, "Slaves quarters. Storage. And some machinery. Two flights of stairs and an elevator. That's on the side branch. I don't have a key to the elevator."
"No guards?"
"Only if they're fucking one of the slaves. Yusuf is generous with his property that way."
"Right," Konstantin said. He considered, Do we go slow up the corridor, listening at each door? No. what would be the point? If we don't hear anything it doesn't prove shit. And if we do, what do we do? Go in and kill the room's occupants? Too noisy. "Go on," he told Lada.
"The far staircase," she continued, "goes all the way to the third floor. The nearer only goes directly to the second. We have to go to the far one, go up to the third floor, then come back and use the branch to get to the door to Yusuf's private quarters."
"Guard on the door?" Konstantin asked.
"Always. Two of them, sometimes three. And the door will be locked."
"How thick is this door?"
"Stout," she answered. "Very stout. Unless you use explosives the occupants of the room are unlikely to hear what's going on in the corridor."
"Occupants?" the major asked, emphasizing the plural.
She nodded her head. "Almost always. Sometimes one girl, sometimes two. Sometimes a little boy. Sometimes one of each. Sometimes all three. Or more."
"How did you-" He stopped his question. For the purposes of the mission it hardly mattered.
Lada shook her head and answered anyway. "I volunteered. For the Service if not for the mission. Through an intermediary, the old man arranged to have me sold directly to Yusuf." She shrugged. "I'm really twenty-four but I look fourteen. I claimed here to be sixteen. Yusuf figured I was a mature looking thirteen and enjoyed fucking me all the more for that."