“I’m sure you are,” said Breanna. Rubeo took everything seriously.
“Is there anything else? I am in the middle of constructing a model.”
“No, that’s it. I’ll talk to you in the morning at the Cube.”
“Very well,” he said, hanging up.
11
Turk rolled over on the thin mattress in the trailer room. Though exhausted, he found it impossible to sleep. After he’d returned from the mission — the Malaysians were bivouacked in tents near the trailers — he’d gone over the mission several times, first for Danny, then the Marines, then Danny again. By the time they were done, his brain was practically buzzing with the encounter; he saw it from all angles, even the enemy UAVs, though of course this was impossible. His mind wouldn’t let go.
While he could get sleeping pills from the corpsman assigned to the Marines, Turk didn’t like to use them, or even the more conventional aids available in the form of bourbon, scotch, and beer. He stared at the ceiling, but his thoughts just wouldn’t stop, and finally he got up, pulled on his boots — he slept in his clothes — and went out to see if a walk might help.
He heard someone throwing up in the bathroom. The door was open and he saw Lieutenant Rogers kneeling in front of the bowl.
“You OK in there?” he asked.
“Damn food killed me,” said Rogers between heaves. “I feel like my stomach is being turned inside out.”
“I’ll get the corpsman,” said Turk.
Rogers groaned, then went back to throwing up.
Turk headed toward the administrative trailer to look for the duty officer and find out who and where the medic was.
He was about halfway there when he heard a whistle above him. It was a strange, unearthly sound, a high-pitched sizzle that seemed to snap against the strong night wind.
The explosion that followed was something else again.
Turk fell as the ground seemed to dissolve beneath him. He landed on his side, and for a moment all the adrenaline that had kept him awake disappeared; he was dazed and confused, not sure where he was or even, in that moment, who he was.
“Incoming!” yelled a Marine nearby. “Mortars!”
Turk bolted upright, energy and consciousness instantly restored. He turned and ran back into the trailer he’d just come out of, screaming at everyone inside.
“Get to the bunker, get to the bunker!” he yelled, directing them to one of the two shelters the Marines had installed immediately after taking the base.
Men plunged from their rooms, charging into the barely lit corridor in various states of dress.
“Mortars,” said one of the NCOs. His voice was loud, but there was no excitement in it, let alone fear. “Move out!”
“The planes,” said Cowboy, coming out of his room at the far end. “We gotta get them off the field. Get the rest of the pilots! Pilots, come on!”
Turk ran to Rogers in the bathroom. He was still hunched over the toilet, his legs curled around him on the floor.
“You gotta get out of here,” Turk said and grabbed him by the back of his shirt.
“Man…”
“Come on, Marine. Stand up.”
Rogers struggled to comply. Turk helped him out into the hall, then down toward the doorway.
Two rounds hit nearby as Turk pushed Rogers out. He lost his balance, falling against the wall and letting go of Rogers. The Marine went down to his knees and threw up.
The stench turned Turk’s stomach, but he managed to grab the shorter pilot and drag him over his shoulder. The compound lit with the flash of another explosion, this one up near the airstrip. The light helped Turk orient himself, and he turned in the direction of the nearest bunker.
“Yo, Rogers,” he said. “It would sure help if you could push your feet every so often.”
Danny Freah had just finished taking his boots off to go to sleep when the first mortar hit the base. It had been a few years since he was on the receiving end of a mortar attack, but it was an experience few people wanted to relive, and Danny certainly wasn’t one of them. He pulled his boots back on, grabbed his secure laptops and the satellite phone, and ran from his trailer toward the command bunker, built around the foundation of an old building at the center of the base.
Captain Thomas met him a few yards outside the sandbagged entrance.
“Great way to wake up,” snapped the Marine captain. Two men ran across the field, M-16s in hand, hustling to a perimeter post. “We should have eyes on in a minute.”
“You gotta get all the planes off,” said Danny. “Where’s Greenstreet?”
“He ran up on the strip. I’m sure he’s got it under control. Let’s get inside the bunker.”
Calling the structure a bunker was a bit of an overstatement. The interior had been dug out about three feet, and the sides built up with sandbags. The roof consisted of a series of corrugated steel panels covered with sandbags and dirt. Power came from a gas generator a dozen yards away.
The Marines had launched an RQ7Z Shadow, and its controller was flying the aircraft west, attempting to locate the attack. Based on the original RQ7B, the drone could carry a slightly heavier payload and was designed to be launched by one man rather than two; otherwise the performance specs were similar. Looking like a stick glider with a triangle at its tail and a ball turret below its wings, the UAV jetted into the sky from a small metal trailer. Once airborne, its infrared camera provided a 360-degree view of the battlefield; its laser designator could be tied into the F-35B attack systems.
Right now it was getting an eyeful.
“We got over fifty savages in the weeds,” said the Marine at the controls. “They’re massing for an attack on the west side of the base.”
Danny spun around and nearly struck Captain Thomas.
“I heard him,” said Thomas. “We’ll be ready.”
A marine ran out to help Turk as he pulled Rogers into the shelter near the airstrip. Just as the weight was lifted off his shoulder, the ground rocked with another nearby explosion. Turk lost his balance and fell straight back, smacking his head on the ground. He rolled to his belly and got to his knees, momentarily disoriented. Then he pushed to his feet.
The Malaysian ground troops were about four hundred yards away, near the outer perimeter. Turk decided that he should head over there in case they needed to liaison with the Marines. But before he could take a single step, one of the crew chiefs for the planes ran up to him, shouting about Rogers.
“We’re looking for him — they need him in the air!” yelled the Marine.
“He’s sick,” said Turk.
“Damn. We need to get the plane off. It’s a sitting duck.”
“I’ll fly it,” said Turk. “Take me up there.”
“But—”
Turk grabbed hold of the man’s arm and pushed him in the direction of the runway. “Let’s go!”
Danny stood at the side of the small bunker as Captain Thomas took control of the situation. The rebel force was sizable, nearly four times the number of Marines assigned to guard the perimeter. But the Corps had a slogan: every Marine is a rifleman. And Thomas lived by it: he had already drilled the maintenance and support people in the defense of the base. He now rallied them into position, readying for the assault the Shadow had seen coming.
Ironically, all that preparation left Danny feeling useless; he didn’t have an assignment.
“Give me a rifle,” he told Thomas. “I’ll help on the perimeter.”
The captain frowned. “No offense, sir, but—”
“I guarantee I’ve seen more action than you, Captain,” answered Danny.