Long way to go without a radio.
CHAPTER 48
Hawkins ducked as one of the Apaches flashed dangerously close overhead, hustling toward the escalating firefight out on the highway east of the airfield. Distant explosions shook the ground. The Pave Hawk that had deposited him circled back over the road below the southern end of the enemy base, the door gunner occasionally firing at the last defenders still holding out there.
One of the buildings the SAS had attacked had now been secured. The other was surrounded, and an SAS interpreter was trying to get the last defenders to surrender. The clipped radio communications gave no clue about the missing commandos they’d come for. The heavy resistance didn’t mean much, one way or another.
Burns and his men had found the Iraqi fuel truck without resistance. Failing to get it started, they’d pulled and pushed it out of its bunker by hand, muscling it across the runway. It was fully loaded and the going was excruciatingly slow.
Finally, Wong and Fernandez took the tractor they had used to pull the MiG and drove out to the fuel truck, wheeling behind it and pushing it toward the MiG. In the meantime, Eugene and Preston fussed around the plane, getting it ready and even trying to load a missile onto its wing.
They’re going to pull it off, Hawkins realized. Tight-assed Major Preston is actually going to fly the goddamn plane out of Iraq.
What in God’s name were the odds against that? Talk about stinkin’ luck.
Hot damn.
Something moved in the ditch beyond the runway apron beyond the MiG. The plane’s landing gear obscured it, made it invisible — but Hawkins was already running for it, his SAW tight against his side.
It took ten long strides to pull parallel with the nose of the MiG. Two more strides, three, and he had the top of the ditch in view.
Empty.
But he knew he hadn’t imagined it. He kept running. The truck, prodded unevenly by the tractor, heaved forward on his left. One of the British paratroopers coaxing it alongside was laughing. Burns was holding onto the door, talking with the driver, helping him steer.
Nothing in the ditch. Nothing.
But he hadn’t hallucinated.
He kept running, spotting another trench ten feet beyond the ditch, parallel to the runway.
Empty, except for three sacks of cement.
Men. A gun.
The SAW burst, then clicked clean. One of the bags of cement imploded. Burns fell off the truck.
The Iraqi at the far end of the trench stood with a long spear, jostling its pointed nose.
A javelin against a fuel truck?
Hawkins threw his empty gun away, still ten yards from the trench. One of the SAS men was grabbing for a weapon, but no one had started to fire.
Seven yards, five. Not a javelin, an RPG-7 or something similar. The Iraqi was screwing the propellant cylinder into the head, jamming it into the launcher muzzle, ramming it against the ground to steady his shot.
Hawkins screamed as he leapt into the ditch. A small bee whizzed over his head and another below his leg. The rocket flared inches from his eye. His right hand burned and something wet covered his face.
Then a fist punched him in the side. Hawkins threw his elbow in the direction of the blow, pushed up and saw a blur in the shape of a rifle about a foot from his belly. He lunged for it, falling over it and into the man holding it. Three bullets shot from the rifle as they struggled; Hawkins managed to push his body into the Iraqi, pinning him against the side of the dirt. He kicked his foot back as hard as he could, continuing until he could wrestle the gun free. He jerked it around and smashed it against the man he’d pinned, then sprung away, twisting to get his bearings. As he did, he saw a pipe roll from the top of the trench to the bottom near his foot.
By the time his conscious mind processed the fact that the pipe was not a pipe but a grenade, Hawkins had already grabbed hold of it. In the same motion he tossed it skyward. As it left his fingers he thought how incredibly lucky he must be that it hadn’t gone off.
Then he realized that he had thrown it in the direction of the tanker truck.
In the next moment, it exploded.
Hawkins had hunkered down, but could still feel the impact. Pieces of shrapnel and rock rained against the back of his body armor. He smashed his hand against the trench in anger, then rose, pushing away the body of a dead Iraqi that had fallen on top of him, struggling to see the runway.
The tanker sat in front of the MiG, thirty yards away, intact. With his customary presence of mind, Wong had continued pushing it forward, while Hawkins and the others had dealt with the Iraqis and their antitank weapon. The grenade had landed on the runway, but its shrapnel had missed the vehicles.
Not Burns, though. Hawkins pulled himself and walked to the SAS sergeant, whose body lay at the edge of the concrete. He’d been hit in the neck and legs and face; at least one of the holes had been caused by the Iraqi gunner and not the grenade, but it would have been difficult to tell which one was which. Hawkins knelt down. Burns lay face up. The flap of the sergeant’s breast pocket was open. Hawkins saw the back of the photograph Burns had shown him yesterday. Five kids and a wife, who thought an afternoon in an amusement park was the time of their lives.
They always would, now.
Blood trickled toward the photo. Hawkins reached down and took it out gingerly, holding it up as one of Burns’ men ran to him.
“Iraqis got him?” asked the man.
Hawkins just frowned at him, handing him the picture.
“Let’s get that fucking airplane the hell out of here!” Hawkins shouted, starting after the truck.
CHAPTER 49
Major Preston had just climbed back into the cockpit and turned to check where the fuel truck was when the grenade exploded. He ducked, losing his balance and nearly falling over the side. He slammed his side and back against a sharp piece of the fairing: hid kidney hurt so badly he through he’d been hit by the grenade. He crumpled against the seat, disoriented and confused, head swirling as if he’d taken nine or ten negative g’s. Somehow he got upright and tried to shake the black cowl away from his head. He didn’t dare look at his body, still thinking he’d been wounded by the exploding grenade.
I’ll fly no matter what, he thought to himself. He felt his side with his hands. His fingers slipped lightly over the fabric, then pushed against the folds, pressing finally against his back.
He hadn’t been hit.
The truck continued toward the plane. Hack climbed out of the cockpit to help refuel, extending his legs to the ladder. An Apache whipped overhead from the other side of the runway; for a second it looked like its skids would ram into the airplane. Hack ducked, cringing. The helicopter pulled away at the last instant and Hack tightened his grips as the wash rattled around him. He stepped back, toeing the step, then lost his balance as he tried to move too quickly to the ground.
He twisted as he fell, smashing his left wrist and hand against one of the ladder’s metal steps. A fresh burst of machine-gun fire somewhere nearby froze him, and once more he thought he’d been shot.
Pulling himself away from the ladder slowly, he felt punch drunk. A flash of queasiness hit his stomach. His left wrist hung off at an angle, a bone probably broken. The thin layer of flesh between his thumb and forefinger turned purple as he watched. The rest of his forearm quickly began to swell. The pain began to multiply wildly, a puff adder suddenly excited. The wound’s poison paralyzed him. Preston pushed his head down, flexing his shoulder and back muscles as if they might somehow take over for the injured bones and ligaments.