Something was moving near the far truck. One of the bodies.
He pushed the gun up, cradling it against his ribs and squeezed the trigger, expecting a torrent of bullets. Nothing happened.
The body kept moving. It was coming toward him.
He looked at the unfamiliar rifle in his hand. The gun had a cocking handle on the right side.
Pull it back? Push it?
He had to steady the gun with his legs to get at the handle. He pulled it back, looked up and saw the Iraqi soldier less than twenty yards away, just reaching for a rifle.
He pulled up the gun and pulled the trigger again. The rifle barked ferociously, the ground ahead of the man erupting with bullets. For all the noise, the backlash from the gun was mild, no more than that from a .22 squirrel plinker.
But he missed. And now the soldier had reached the gun. Mongoose felt his legs go out from under him, he landed on his butt and rolled, his bad arm screaming.
Was he cocked? Did he have to reload?
Desperate, his finger flailed for the lever, reached back for the trigger. He heard gunfire but realized it was the other man shooting, not him. Finally, bullets began spitting from his gun. He pushed the barrel up and then over into the cloudy haze of the man, pressed his finger until he realized nothing more was coming out and the soldier had stopped moving.
Mongoose used the rifle to get back to his feet. It slipped from his hands as he got up and he let it fall; it was empty and no good to him now. He walked as quickly as he could to the man he’d just killed. He kicked him to make sure he was dead, kicked the gun away.
Maybe I ought to pray, he thought. Or better, play the lottery. Because I sure as hell have been one lucky son of a bitch. All these bastards lying around me, and I’m the only one left. God damn, I am one lucky son of a bitch.
The low whoosh of an approaching jet brought him back to reality. He stopped for a second, listening, realizing it was Hog, knowing it must be one of his companions.
And he had no way to signal them. They were still some distance off, low enough for him to hear. They’d skim the trucks and think he was an Iraqi.
Or worse, they’d miss him all together.
He’d flung away his flares somewhere around here. A desperate frenzy seized his brain as he trotted around, looking for it. Shadows and hallucinations poked at the corners of his vision, as if the dead were coming back to life, as if he were caught in the middle of a horror film. He tried to hold it all away, to stay in checklist mode. It wasn’t going to get to him. He was too goddamn lucky for it to get him.
Too many people were counting on him. The squadron. Kath. Robby.
He saw something in the dust, the bandoleer. He ran for it, tripped, stretched his arm out.
Not the bandoleer but a jacket, crusted with blood.
It was impossible to get to his feet. He could hear the planes getting closer, overhead. They’d leave. This would be his last chance.
The ground felt so damn good. Sleep.
Mongoose pushed to his knee, clawed at the earth. He finally reached his feet.
The bandoleer and the small flashlight-like flare gun lay on the other side of the Iraqi captain. It seemed to glow, catching the glint of the hidden sun. The wind kicked up and sprayed dust in his face, bits and pieces of debris clinging to his chest and face. He tried brushing them off with his good hand, waving at the air as if a swarm of flies had appeared to harass him.
One of the things that stuck to him was the photograph. He started to throw it aside before realizing what it was. Instead of letting go of it he pushed it into the fist of his wounded hand.
The bandoleer was at his feet. He knelt and scooped it up.
His fingers fumbled with the launcher as his mind began to float above his body, moving over the ground, far away to a place where he didn’t have to be lucky and blessed or just another sucker about to be done in by the most ironic ending Fate could imagine.
CHAPTER 55
Even before he saw the flare, Skull knew Mongoose was here. Call it intuition or ESP or stubbornness or just dumb luck, he knew his guy was there.
He wasn’t sure, though, whether he was still alive. Anybody could fire a flare. It would be a perfect way to lure them close enough for a good shoulder-launched missile.
There was only one way to find out. And it wasn’t a job he could give a subordinate.
A flicker of fear shot through the fingers of his left hand as he steadied the throttle.
Good, he thought. I can deal with that.
“Watch for a ground launch,” he told A-Bomb.
“I got it.”
Low and slow. Dangerous as hell, but there was no substitute. The flaps were out as airbrakes, he was nearly going backwards damn it, but he couldn’t tell. There wasn’t enough light and he was too far off.
And his eyes were failing him. That was the real story. He was old.
There were bodies, but none seemed to be moving.
Someone had fired the flares. He was going to call the search-and-rescue team in.
Hell, it was either that or land the plane.
“See him?” asked A-Bomb as he pulled up.
“I saw someone. I’m coming around again.”
“Go for it. I’m on you.”
He came in even lower and slower than he had the first time, but the truth was, he was still moving too damn fast for his eyes.
Bodies were strewn haphazardly. He couldn’t tell if one was wearing a flight suit; if one was different than the rest.
He couldn’t tell whether they were all dead. Nothing had moved.
But hell― he knew Mongoose was down there. The flare had definitely been one of theirs.
Skull refused to consider any other possibility. The only thing he worried about now was bringing the helicopter into an ambush.
But wouldn’t anybody looking to grease an American take him out? Ducks flew slower than he did.
Another shot of fear in his fingers. Skull turned the Warthog around for a third circuit. This time, he wasn’t looking at the ground. Instead, he concentrated on holding the plane a half-knot over stall speed as he made his tail as fat a target as possible.
A water pistol could have nailed him.
“Mark the location so we both have it,” said Skull. “I’m calling in the helos.”
“Kick ass.”
A pair of Special Ops Pave Low helicopters, call signs Big Bear and Little Bear, had been waiting not far from the border to make the pickup. But it was going to take them and their escorts at least a half hour to get here.
“We’ll wait,” Skull told the controller.
The rescue choppers were part of a full-blown “package” or group of airplanes that undertook rescues behind the lines. F-15 Eagles were tasked for combat air patrol, Weasels were watching for SAMS, a fresh pair of A-10As flew close support escorting the choppers in, and tankers were available to keep everyone topped off. Combat might come down to one-on-one, but there were a ton of guys and gals behind the scenes making it happen. Part of Colonel Knowlington’s brain mapped the different elements out as if on a dry-erase board, plotting and planning like a squadron commander.
The other part focused on the desert, scanning the ground for possible resistance.
Two halves, commander and pilot. The pilot was younger, more primitive Knowlington― one with better reflexes and a cast-iron gut. He was damn sure Mongoose was down there, and alive.
The commander wasn’t quite so positive. Sure be nice if one of the bodies down there got up and started doing a jumping jack or something.