The chief of Maintenance, a reservist colonel who had served Pontowski so well, was waiting. “Thank God you made it,” he said.
“You got seventy-eight troops left, is that right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How many do you need to launch the Hogs?”
“Two per jet,” came the answer. “Twenty.”
“That leaves fifty-eight. Tell them to grab their helmets and whatever weapons they got and report to the BDOC. We need them for fire teams.”
“Rockne trained some of them for guard duty when we first got here,” the colonel said. “Give me a few minutes to switch around, and I’ll send them.” He pointed to seven men sitting against the back wall. “They can go now.”
“Load ’em in the van,” Pontowski ordered. “Where are the two pilots not assigned to a Hog?” The colonel pointed to the room at the back of the shelter. “Hey, I need some jocks out here,” Pontowski shouted. Waldo and Bag ran out and joined him. “You two think you can organize some type of close-in defense so crew chiefs from one shelter can give covering fire to another shelter when it launches a jet?”
“Can do, Boss,” Waldo answered. He snorted. “Why do we always do this the hard way?”
Pontowski ignored him and ran for the van. It started to move the moment he piled in. The shelter’s blast doors cranked open. “BDOC,” he ordered. Outside, heavy smoke rolled across the taxiway, dropping visibility to thirty feet. But the driver knew his way and had them at the BDOC in less than four minutes. “Follow me,” Pontowski told the seven mechanics. He led the way into the bunker. “Chief,” he told Rockne, “match these guys with a cop.” He had just given Rockne seven more fire teams. “You got about fifty more coming.”
He radioed the command post as he ran out. “Tell the doc I’m on my way.” The med station was less than a hundred meters from the BDOC, but still he drove, not wanting to lose track of the van. The smoke grew heavier as they approached, and he rolled up the windows. Then he saw the source. The med station was engulfed in flames, black smoke rolling out in waves. He couldn’t believe it when two medics ran out of the bunker, their arms full of supplies. “Where’s Ryan?” he yelled. The man pointed to a nearby aircraft shelter. He dumped his load on the ground and ran back inside. Clark’s driver jumped out and followed them inside. Pontowski ran for the shelter.
Doc Ryan was in the middle of the floor, bent over a wounded man in a litter. He stood up when he saw Pontowski, and shook his head. “How many?” Pontowski asked.
“Twenty-six all told,” he answered, gesturing around the shelter. “Eleven EP.” Enemy prisoners. Pontowski walked the floor, talking to his men. Most were going to make it. He stepped across the imaginary line that separated the two groups. A soldier looked up at him, certain that Pontowski was going to execute him. “We’ll take care of you,” he promised. The soldier did not speak English, but he heard the meaning. He said the only two words of English he knew: “Thank you.”
The blast doors moved back, and the van drove in. The two medics jumped out and offloaded the medical supplies they had retrieved from the burning med station. The driver reeked of smoke. “We got two wounded at the gate,” Ryan called. “But we can’t get them here.”
“I go,” the driver said. Pontowski sent him on his way and checked in with the command post.
“We have intruders on base,” Clark told him. “We’re buttoning up, so stay where you are. The chief is sending two fire teams to your position.”
“Copy all,” Pontowski replied. He took off his helmet and rubbed his forehead. He looked at his watch. It was one hour to sunrise.
Forty
Waldo nervously paced the floor of Maintenance’s deserted shelter, frustration itching at him. A shell whistled overhead and hit the southern edge of the base. “Give me a Hog and I’ll mort that fucker,” he promised, his frustration turning to anger.
“Just give me a Hog,” Bag lamented. Like Waldo, he wanted to do something. “Who did we piss off?” he asked, wondering why neither of them had been assigned a jet.
“We were out of the rotation,” Waldo answered. “And you know Maggot. And then Clark couldn’t get us on a helicopter to beat feet out of here.” Another round whistled overhead, and he grunted an indecipherable obscenity. “At least the bastard hasn’t got the range.”
“Without an observer it’s just harassment fire,” Bag said.
“Well, it’s working,” Waldo muttered. More pacing. He came alert. “I think it’s stopped.” Both men listened, and the minutes dragged, each one longer than the previous. Waldo hurried to the small door at the rear of the shelter and cracked it open. “Yeah, it’s definitely stopped.” Smoke drifted in and stung their eyes. Waldo closed the door and dogged it down. “Not good.”
“What do you mean, not good?” Bag asked.
“What comes next is definitely not good,” Waldo replied. On cue, his radio came alive. “Shit! Tanks have busted through on the southern perimeter and are heading this way.”
Bag ran to the big blast door and listened. “I can hear gunfire.”
Waldo held up a hand, still listening to the radio traffic. “Three tanks with troops have broken through.”
“Son of a bitch,” Bag moaned. “Caught like fish in a barrel. I didn’t want to buy it this way.”
Waldo snorted. “I ain’t no fuckin’ fish.” His head jerked up as an image flashed in front of him. It was the hangar queen, the A-10 that couldn’t be repaired and was being salvaged for parts. He looked at the big doors in front of him, imagining them as they rolled back. “Bag, think you can play crew chief?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on.” He led the way out the small entrance at the rear and ran for the next shelter. The rear entrance was unbolted, and he ran inside. A Warthog was parked inside, the right engine missing, the canopy gone, the left rudder partially disassembled, and numerous panels removed where parts had been cannibalized.
“No way this hangar queen can fly,” Bag said.
Waldo scampered up the bordering ladder and lowered himself into the cockpit. “Who said anything about flying? Check the gun and pull the pins.” His hands flew over the panels, running the before-engine-start checklist. He hit the battery switch. Nothing. “I need power.” Bag hurried to the APU and started it. The sound was deafening in the enclosed shelter. Fortunately, the exhaust was vented outside. Bag plugged in the electrical cord on the right side of the fuselage just aft of the cockpit. The electrical busses came alive, sending power to the instruments. The rounds counter indicated that there were 734 rounds in the cannon’s ammo drum. “Shit hot!” Waldo roared. “Open the doors!” Bag ran to the control box and hit the switch. Slowly the big blast doors cranked back. Waldo started the Hog’s internal APU and lifted the left throttle over the hump. The engine spun up, and at 20 percent, fuel automatically started to flow. The igniter worked, and the motor kicked off. Waldo gave Bag the thumbs-out signal to remove the wheel chocks. Bag disconnected the power cord and jerked the blocks free. Waldo fed power into the one engine, and the Hog taxied out of its nest.