A-Bomb keyed the emergency frequency again, then cut his throttle back ten percent, hoping to push “sooner or later” a bit further out.
CHAPTER 23
Mongoose had walked nearly a half mile from the road, and begun to parallel it south toward a clump of low trees, before realizing that he had left the seat’s survival pack back where he landed. He stopped, nearly slapping his forehead with his right hand, though he was still holding his pistol.
He spun around to go back, then stopped himself.
“Checklist mode,” he said aloud. “Think, don’t react.”
To get the pack, he would have to cross the road again. It was getting truly dark and he might not make it back here, let alone to the trees. He wanted to be near them to direct the helo in when it came.
The seat pack had a spare radio and more flares. Mongoose debated whether they were worth getting. He already had a radio. He had his water, the gun, his knife, some flares. Going back would take at least a half-hour, maybe more; he might or might not find his way back.
If the Iraqis had found the chute and seat, they might be there now, setting an ambush or booby-trapping them.
He had to keep away from the enemy, make contact with an allied plane, and hang tight until the rescue team got there. The seat pack wasn’t essential. It was a backup really. He could do without it.
Probably get picked up in a few minutes.
Mongoose felt a twinge in his knee as he squatted and holstered his gun. The pain at the back of his head had settled into a steady but low rhythm, vaguely reminiscent of the throb of an out-of-tune Chevy Camaro he’d owned as a teenager. He could live with the thump and his slightly strained knee; all things considered he was in great shape.
The survival radio felt like a thin Walkman in his hand as he made another transmission. The squelch sounded a bit different, but there wasn’t an acknowledgment. He flipped over to the beacon, broadcast a while, waited.
A-Bomb would have the helos on their way. Best to find a landmark to steer them toward.
The trees. He started walking again.
When he was less than fifty yards from the trees’ shadows, they began to move. He stopped, drew his pistol, slid down into his crouch. Mongoose told himself it must be the wind, even though the movement seemed human. He rocked his upper body back and forth, scanning with the gun, waiting for the shadows to either stop moving completely or separate.
Neither happened. He straightened slowly, pulling the gun back close to his body. The trees were hardly tall enough to be worth calling them that; they had thin, bent trunks and scraggly tops. Not even a kid could have hidden behind them had there been daylight.
But in the dark their shadows were a thick blur. Though he’d been watching the copse for probably close to an hour now, Mongoose was no longer sure of it, or himself; he couldn’t trust his eyes. He began sidestepping, moving to his right, gun still drawn against an ambush.
If an Iraqi soldier was hiding in the copse, he’d have wasted him by now. This distance with a rifle, he’d be diced.
Or maybe not. The guy might be scared, not know whether Mongoose was armed or not— might not even know he was the enemy.
Why would he be waiting, then?
Mongoose ducked as he saw something move. He pushed the gun out, steadied it with both hands.
Nothing.
He sidestepped some more. The copse was small, with a half-dozen trees, its circumference twenty yards tops. The ground tilted toward it, as if it were the bottom of a bowl.
The night was as quiet as the inside of a funeral home at midnight.
Something moved again. This time Mongoose was sure it was a man taking aim at him, and fired.
The crack of the gun had a hollow sound that lasted for what seemed like hours, not an echo but the long strand of the only noise in a deep vacuum of silence. Mongoose strained to keep his finger from pushing the trigger again, waiting for a muzzle flash to show him where to aim. Sweat started to drip across the back of his cheek, even though he was colder than he’d ever been in his life.
There was no muzzle flash. He resumed his sidestep, quicker now, knowing that if no one had returned his fire there was no one there. The movement and shadows had only been his imagination, but still he felt his stomach boil.
When he had circled the copse, Mongoose pushed forward to the trees, closing his eyes as he passed between two trunks into the small clearing at its center. When no one rushed him, he opened them again and saw there was a small depression here, almost a trench. He plopped down and took one more look around, told himself aloud he was all right, then laid his pistol aside and yanked at his vest, grabbing for one of the water packets. He tore it clumsily and drank in a gulp, losing a good portion down his face and neck.
It took a lot to keep from ripping open another.
“You have to make this stuff last a while,” he said to himself, against speaking out loud, though this time in a whisper. “It’s your job.”
Mongoose took his radio out and came up on the emergency frequency once again, broadcasting first in beacon mode and then voice.
Still no answer. He couldn’t understand that. Except for the brief flutter when he first landed, the radio had been silent. There ought to be a good amount of traffic up here; certainly someone should be in range to pick him up.
Mongoose gave another burst, held the small radio to his ear, listening.
Was the damn thing even working? He could hear static. He shook it, listened again. Half the air force ought to be close enough to hear him.
Not to mention A-Bomb.
Unless he’d been bagged, too. Mongoose didn’t know what had hit him; it had happened so fast he hadn’t really been able to tell. He thought it was probably a shoulder-fired heat-seeker, even though there had felt like too much damage for that.
He stopped himself from replaying the hit. He had to stay in the present, the future. Mongoose tried the radio again, then checked his watch. He’d wait fifteen minutes before transmitting again. The battery wouldn’t last forever.
It was possible that there was something wrong with the radio. He might be transmitting, but not receiving. Or some vagary with the altitude, the clouds, sun spots, or fate might be screwing him up.
Checklist mode.
Time to move on. He had to face the possibility that he was going to be spending the night.
A very strong possibility.
It was cold. The wind was starting up again, and that only made things worse.
This was the only sheltered area nearby, and any group of Iraqi soldiers would undoubtedly head for it if they were searching the area. He would have to leave it, go far enough away to be safe, but still close enough to use it to guide the air-rescue chopper in if it came.
Not if. When it came.
Now the shadows of the trees felt comforting, as if they could protect him. And there was wood on the ground, maybe enough to start a small fire, something to keep warm.
Not enough wood to make it last very long. And it would definitely risk alerting the Iraqis.
The guy in the pickup might have taken care of that already.
The time to start the fire was an hour or two before dawn. He’d minimize his exposure to the Iraqis. Most of them would have given up searching by then, or at least taken a break.
But shit, he’d be frozen solid if he didn’t do something to warm up.
The faint whisper of Hog fan jets in the distance turned his head around with a jolt.