“Yes sir, but, uh…”
Danny knew that Thomas considered it his job to provide security, and that he would feel responsible if anything happened to him. He’d been in the same spot himself, many times.
“Look, Captain, I can shoot as well as most of your men, I’m sure,” he said bluntly. “You need bodies. And if anything happens, I gave you a direct order, which everyone here will vouch for.”
“What I could use is someone liaising with the Malaysians,” said Thomas. “I haven’t been able to reach them on the radio. Their equipment is primitive — and that’s if they remember to use it. I need someone who can get a radio to them and tell them what to do. They can reinforce the southern side of the perimeter.”
“Did Turk go down to talk to them?”
“Uh, Captain Mako ran up to the airstrip to fly one of the planes,” said a lance corporal who just entered the bunker, wearing his helmet and carrying an M-16A4. “One of our guys is sick, I heard.”
“Give me a radio,” said Danny.
Thomas hesitated, but then complied. “Mofitt, go over with the colonel,” he said, turning to the man who’d just come in.
“Yes, sir, right away.”
“Let’s do it,” said Danny.
One of the F-35s started down the runway as Turk ran up. It took him by surprise, and he ducked involuntarily as it roared past, both pilot and steed eager to get into the air.
Turk continued toward the other planes. Two crew dogs were attaching bombs to the hard points of the nearest aircraft, despite the continuing whistle of the mortar attacks. A pair of rounds landed every thirty or forty seconds, with an occasional single shell breaking the pattern. They were getting closer to the runway, walking up in fits and starts.
Turk spotted Colonel Greenstreet in front of the wing of the plane being armed. He was shouting at the ordnance men, yelling at them to finish their business so he could get in the air and do some “f-in’ good.”
A second F-35 taxied out from behind the aircraft. It hesitated a moment, then seemed to explode off the runway so fast that Turk thought it had been hit by a mortar shell.
One of the crewmen spotted Turk and ran to him.
“Captain! Have you seen Lieutenant Rogers?” he shouted.
“He’s sick,” said Turk. “I’m going to fly. Get me to his plane.”
The crewman pointed to the very end of the tarmac and began running toward it. Turk caught up in a few seconds and then passed him, racing to the F-35B as the shriek of incoming rounds pierced the air. The shells exploded a hundred yards away, off to the right; while they landed harmlessly, Turk realized that the enemy had changed its sights and was now aiming at the planes and the runway.
A crew chief met Turk as he reached the airplane. “Captain Mako?”
“Rogers is sick!” shouted Turk. “I’m getting his plane up!”
“Uh—”
“I’m checked out on it,” he said. “We leave it on the ground it’s dead.”
That was apparently enough of an argument for the crew captain, a gunnery sergeant who’d heard Turk during the briefings and knew he was a pilot.
“She’s fueled!” shouted the gunny. “We just put some bombs on the rack.”
“Good! Let’s go.”
“You need gear!” yelled the NCO. “Where the hell is your helmet? You need a flight suit!”
“Get them quick or I’m going up like this,” said Turk. Technically, he didn’t need either, but one of the gunny’s men was running up with a helmet, and Turk knew he’d have a much easier time with the plane if he was geared up properly. Fortunately, the suit was a little big and he was able to get into it quickly.
“Careful where you step, Captain,” said the gunny as he climbed into the plane.
“Call me Turk!”
“Get your helmet on!”
“In the plane!” Turk pulled himself over the fairing and slipped in.
It had been two years since he’d been in an F-35B, let alone flew one. Though the plane shared a large number of parts with the Air Force’s F-35A, in truth it was a much different animal, certainly when taking off and landing.
And it had been quite a while since he’d flown an A model as well, come to think of.
“Damn.” Turk momentarily blanked. He stared at the controls. “What the hell do I do first?”
The crew chief appeared on his right with the helmet.
“Here, Captain!” he shouted as two more rounds landed somewhere behind them. These sounded much closer than the last set. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let’s go!”
“What the hell are you doing!” yelled Greenstreet, materializing on his left.
“Rogers is down in the bunker puking his guts out,” said Turk. “He’s sick.”
“What?”
“He’s sick. Something he ate. We have to get the plane off the ground.”
“Where’s the rest of your gear?”
“We don’t have time — I’m just going to get it off the ground.”
If Greenstreet thought that wasn’t a good idea, the thud-thud of two more rounds falling, these near the edge of the runway, convinced him otherwise.
“Go! Get him off the ground!” he shouted to the crew. “And don’t wreck my plane!”
“I won’t. Don’t worry about that,” snapped Turk, reaching to start the engine.
“You good, Captain?” asked the crew chief, his voice considerably kinder if just as loud as Greenstreet’s.
“Yeah, I’m good. Get yourself to shelter.”
The Marine gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared off the wing as the ground shook with a fresh explosion.
Turk looked back at the panel.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he said aloud.
BRAVE MEN AND COWARDS
1
Mofitt led Danny down to the Malaysian camp. The corporal, with the tall, lean build of a natural runner, trotted at a strong pace, glancing over his shoulder every few paces to make sure Danny was still with him. By the time they reached the edge of the Malaysian army bivouac, Danny was winded and had to pause for a moment to catch his breath.
“You all right, Colonel?” asked the Marine.
“I’m OK. You can go back now.”
“No offense, sir, but the captain wouldn’t like that.”
“All right. Come on.”
The Malaysians’ tents were arranged in a semicircle, with their commander’s tent in the middle; they were all empty.
“They might be in the trenches,” said Mofitt, trotting in the direction of a sandbagged defensive position about thirty yards downhill from the tents. But the Malaysians were nowhere in sight.
“Hang tight for a minute,” said Danny. He took the radio and called back to the Marine commander, asking if the Malaysians had checked in.
“Negative. Where are you?”
“In their camp,” Danny told him.
“They’re not there?”
“Roger that.”
“Stand by.”
Captain Thomas came back on the line a moment later, having checked the video from his overhead UAV. “They’ve gone down to the spot on the perimeter already,” said the Marine. “They’re in defensive positions.”
“All right, we’re going,” Danny told him.
“Is Mofitt with you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Roger. Be advised, the rebels look like they’re getting ready to attack.”
Danny looked over at Mofitt, crouched nearby against the sandbags. The corporal was scanning the area in front of them with his night vision.
“They’re holding the line near the road,” said Danny. “But they have no coms.”