It didn’t look like a high-velocity wound, and hopefully hadn’t done too much damage, like puncturing an internal organ or the stomach and releasing poisonous digestive enzymes. Crocker knew that lung tissue was less dense and had more elasticity than, say, the liver, spleen, or adipose tissue, which have little elasticity and are easily injured.
All this information was burning through his head as he held the bandage down with one hand and applied pressure to the femoral artery with the other.
He looked up at Akil and said, “We’ve got to get him out of here, in case the helo catches fire.”
Akil nodded, but he still didn’t seem focused.
Crocker made sure the blowout patch and the plastic he had taped over the wound were secure, then rolled Cal toward him until he was on his side, positioned his top leg so that his hip and knee were at right angles, tipped his head back to keep the airway open, and with Akil’s help slid him clear of the helo engine. They carried him by holding him under the legs, hips, shoulders, and head to a relatively flat spot about two hundred yards away, and laid him down.
“He’ll be okay if we get help fast, his vitals remain stable, and he doesn’t go into shock,” Crocker whispered.
Akil removed his helmet and shook his head. “How the fuck did this happen?” he asked.
“What?”
“To the helo. Was it hit by enemy fire?”
“I’m not an air crash forensics expert,” Crocker answered. “Put your helmet back on. Make the call.”
“What call?”
“I told you to call Davis. We need medevac. We need to remove the bodies and destroy the helo.”
“Check.”
“Do it now!”
Crocker’s right hand shaking, he climbed into the helo and held on to the bar along the ceiling, using the red lens flashlight on his belt. He found no bullet holes or evidence of enemy fire. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.
Past twisted seats, under a couple of rolled-up blankets, he saw Ritchie’s backpack, which he recognized by the Shooter Jennings patch on top. The badass country singer’s version of “Walk of Life” had been one of Ritchie’s favorite songs. In his head Crocker heard Ritchie singing it in the shower at the base east of Tel Aviv like a drunken cowboy.
“He got the action, he got the motion…”
Hanging from the bar with one arm, Crocker hooked his boot under one of the straps and pulled it high enough to rest it on the side of the crushed seat. Then he reached down and grabbed it with his right hand.
The singing continued: “Oh, yeah, the boy can play…”
Outside on the ground, he checked to make sure that the C-4 and detonators were intact. They were. Seeing a smiling photo of Rich and Monica taped to the inside flap, Crocker bit his tongue.
Some things never get started. Some people die before they should. A cavalcade of images passed through his head-his high school girlfriend, Molly, who was killed in a car accident, his cousin Willie…
The taste of blood in his mouth, he climbed back inside to get the blankets and a tarp, which he used to cover the dead bodies.
Part of him wanted to hide under a blanket himself. War sucked. Life made no goddamn sense. You worked hard, struggled, did the best you could, then died.
As they dragged Ritchie in two pieces away from the helicopter, Akil threw up over his hands.
Next thing Crocker remembered was reaching into the cockpit and slinging the pilot over his shoulder and feeling his dead weight, and warm blood dripping down his back.
Akil knelt next to the bodies, then lowered his head to the ground. When Crocker gently slapped the side of his helmet, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes and growled, “I’m praying, goddammit!”
All Crocker could say was “Finish.”
Akil bowed again, stayed with his forehead to the dirt for twenty seconds, then mumbled some kind of salutation to God and got up.
“Okay.”
Crocker asked, “You feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Either way, I need you to stay alert,” Crocker said.
“I’m trying!” Akil spat the words at him, raw and angry.
“What did Davis say?”
“Davis?”
Crocker said, “I asked you to call him, remember?”
“He said the Israelis have dispatched two helicopters. They’re coming, okay? They’re coming! Leave me the fuck alone.”
Crocker grabbed the front of Akil’s uniform. “We’re both upset,” he growled. “But this mission isn’t over, and we need to think clearly!”
Akil partially snapped out of his funk and said, “You’re right, boss. I know.”
Crocker managed to keep his own emotions in check by focusing like a laser on the tasks ahead. First, he knelt down next to Cal and checked his pulse and vital signs again. They were steady, but weak.
Next, he got up and grabbed his weapon. “You’ve got light sticks and flares on you, correct?” he asked.
Akil felt the Flyye pouch on his chest and located them. “Yes. Yes.”
He wouldn’t let his mind wander back to Ritchie and the consequences of his death. Instead, he said, “All right. Wait here and continue to monitor Cal. I’m gonna place the C-4 on the Predator so we can blow it first. When you hear from me, you’re gonna crack the light sticks and activate your strobe so the rescue pilot can locate you. Leave ’em around here, so he lands near the bodies.”
“Leave what here?” Akil asked.
“The flares and strobe. I want the Israeli helo to land on this exact spot. He gets too close to the Black Hawk, a spark flies, and the whole thing blows. You understand me?”
Akil nodded his big head. “Yes.”
“And stay near the radio. Listen and be alert.”
“Got it.”
“Make sure they load the bodies on board, and take care of Cal. Promise me you’ll do that!”
“I will.”
“Then have the pilot fly over the wreck and drop some flares. Make sure it catches on fire. Then get the fuck out of the area!”
“Got it!”
“You understand all that?”
“Yes. I said, I got it.”
“You have a question, or a problem, you call me.”
“Understood.”
Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder and said, “I’ll see you in a few.”
Chapter Three
When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.
– Franklin D. Roosevelt
He ran in the direction of the Predator as fast as his legs could take him, fell, pulled himself up, lost his footing again, and put his arms out fast enough to keep his face from smashing into a boulder. But he let go of his HK416 in the process. So he recovered it, and wiped the dirt off the barrel by squeezing his thighs together and pulling it through.
He took a couple of deep breaths and told himself he had to calm down. The combination of adrenaline coursing through his body and the anger over the deaths filled him with a ragelike, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore kind of energy.
By the time he had counted to four, he became aware of guns discharging on the other side of the hill. Then Davis shouted anxiously over the headset. Crocker was too crazed to distinguish the words. But when he ran and peered past the edge of the hill, he saw what was going on.
There were two pickups between him and the Predator, which was approximately a hundred yards away from where he stood. A fighter in the bed of one of the trucks was firing a nasty fifty-caliber machine gun, which made a loud clanging noise and resulted in Davis and Mancini being pinned behind boulders about twenty yards above and to the north of the downed drone.
In addition to the guy firing the fifty cal, Crocker spotted three others inching toward the Predator with AK-47s, and another two with AKs to the left trying to circle around behind Davis and Mancini.
Crocker took it all in, and thinking No more dead, bolted into action, running to within fifteen yards of the trucks. He stopped, breathed hard three times, and grabbed two of the four M67 grenades from the pouch on his chest. With the HK416 clutched in his left, he pulled the pins with his right hand and flung one after the other.