CHAPTER 48
His arm hurt like all hell. The pain seemed to push his whole body off at a strange angle, twisting his movements into a tortured caricature as the various muscles and nerves tried to compensate for the imbalance the injury had caused.
Mongoose had sprained his wrist twice in high school playing football, but this was a million times worse. His stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a bowling ball. His temples were cold and sweaty. It might be because he was tired and hungry and thirsty, drained from the ordeal of the last twenty-four hours, or maybe it was just the way broken bones felt. He sat with his head against his knees, eyes closed, as the Iraqi captain surveyed the remains of his command. The bandoleer with its flares was only a few yards away, but it might as well be miles now. Mongoose mouthed a piece of his flight suit into his teeth, gritting against it as if it might offer some sort of relief.
“Your arm,” said the Iraqi, standing over him. “What happened?”
“When I fell off the truck. It broke, I guess.”
“You friends did that to you.”
He didn’t answer. The captain didn’t know how right he was. The attackers had definitely been Hogs, and they must have been looking for him. He would bet anything that A-Bomb had been one of the pilots.
Pretty damn ironic.
“My division headquarters will send troops to pick us up. You will not escape.”
Mongoose nudged his head back toward his knee, bit again. The ground was tilted to his left, keeling over on its axis.
He wondered how long he could remain conscious.
“All right, Major, let us move back to the road. There is more light there. Come on now, get up.”
Mongoose flinched when the man touched him under the shoulder, but once again his grip was light, not quite gentle but not wrenching either. He stumbled, aware that the captain had his pistol drawn.
“Go, ahead of the trucks. I am right behind you.”
Mongoose began walk. They were alone. Four or five bodies were scattered near the trunk, including that of the man he had landed against when the gas tank exploded.
There had been at least a half-dozen more, but they were nowhere around. It was possible they were biding their time in a defensive position up the road, or had regrouped with an NCO. But Mongoose didn’t think so; he thought they had run off. They were mostly kids, after all, and it was a good chance that this had been their first real combat.
He’d heard a lot of things before the war about how tough the Iraqis were; the country had sustained a long conflict with Iran, after all. But the Iraqis didn’t seem to be living up to their advance billing.
“Ahead of the truck and onto the road,” said the major. “Keep moving.”
Mongoose corrected his course. Walking along the highway had its advantages; it would make it easier for the Hogs to find him.
They’d be back soon. The sun was starting to peek up at the far edge of the horizon. They’d have an easy time spotting him once it was light.
What would the major do then?
Shoot him most likely.
They walked together for no more than five minutes, Mongoose leading the way slowly, holding his damaged right arm but not looking at it.
“Stop now. We’ll rest here. Let me see your arm.”
“It’s fine,” Mongoose told him.
“Let me see it,” said the captain. He held his pistol in his left hand, close to his body. Mongoose eyed it, thought of trying to wrestle for it. The Iraqi didn’t seem particularly powerful, but of course Johnson had only one good arm. And he was too far away; he’d get off at least two shots before Mongoose even came close.
Bile welled in his throat as he held his right arm out. If he’d had anything in his stomach besides water he would have puked.
“Undo your shirt sleeve. This is as close as I’m getting.”
As Mongoose reached to his sleeve, he realized it was covered with blood. His first thought was that the blood had come from the Iraqi he’d stumbled over earlier, but as he curled his fingers beneath the cuff he realized it was wetter beneath the sleeve. The involuntary startle sent a fresh wave of nausea and pain through his body. He dropped his arm with a groan and sank slowly, finally overwhelmed. Everything beyond the immediate confines of his body disappeared into a hazy buzz.
“Do not move,” said the captain from inside the haze. Mongoose felt the barrel of the pistol against his cheek. A knife appeared at his sleeve and he felt the fabric being torn away. The pain he felt in his arm made Mongoose shriek. He stumbled against the captain, then cringed, his eyes closed, expecting the man to shoot him.
But he did not. The Iraqi waited for Mongoose to catch his balance with his good arm, then calmly took two steps backwards. He slipped the knife back into its sheath.
“You have a compound fracture. It will have to be set as soon as we get back. There will be a doctor. Just be sure to say that I did not do that to you when we reach my headquarters.”
Mongoose stuttered a yes. The buzz began to subside, the pain receding or his ability to deal with it growing. He leaned back from his three-point stance, resting in a crouch.
It seemed inconceivable that the officer would be this kind. Surely, if their situations had been reversed and his own men were lying dead nearby, at least some of his anger would have shown through. He might even have shot the son of a bitch. No one would blame him, and he could always say the guy was trying to escape.
If anyone even bothered to ask.
Maybe it was a duty thing, the major under orders to fetch the pilot back alive. Maybe there was a reward, and it would only be paid if he was unharmed. Still, to act so mildly toward him— it seemed incredible.
And yet he was the enemy, not a friend. He had meant it when he said he would shoot him if he tried to escape; there seemed no doubt about that.
“I’m going to put a canteen on the ground. When I step back, you can have a drink.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“You’re welcome, Major.”
Mongoose focused his eyes on the ground in front of him, waiting for the canteen. His tongue was dry in his mouth, brittle; he wanted water so badly, his heart started pounding.
It could be a trick, he thought when the canteen failed to appear. Maybe perverted revenge.
But no, he had only been unscrewing the top. The Iraqi stepped back and motioned for Mongoose to come forward.
He did quickly. The water felt incredibly delicious. He knew he shouldn’t have too much— more than a few mouthfuls on an empty, parched stomach and it would all come shooting back, leaving him more dehydrated than before. But it took great effort to stop. He squatted with the canteen between his legs and fixed the cap with his good hand.
“Very creative,” said the Iraqi after retrieving the canteen. “You must have been a good engineer.”
“Actually, I probably sucked. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was fly. Engineering was just a backup.”
“Too bad you didn’t choose it.”
“I’ve done all right.”
As Mongoose finally rose, a fresh breeze scratched at his face. He didn’t feel its chill; instead, it seemed to push more of the pain away.
He remembered Kathy’s letter and reached for it involuntarily.
“Stop!” demanded the Iraqi.
“It’s nothing. Just the letter you gave me back before. From my wife.”
It was too dark to read his face clearly, but the major’s tone said that he would no longer completely trust him. “Empty your pocket slowly,” the Iraqi told him.
Mongoose reached inside and took out the letter. He held it up.