Countdown_ The Liberators Part 55

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

Unlike Stauer, whose most useful post was on the s.h.i.+p, Sergeant Major Joshua didn't really have a most useful post. Stauer didn't need him for what he was doing. The operations staff was perfectly competent for their jobs and would resent his b.u.t.ting in. Intel? s.h.i.+t, all I know about intel is what I get asked to find out and how to read a summary. And log? Forget log; Gordon's people have that well in hand.

He'd stood at a distance, ready to pounce if necessary, for the boat load outward. He'd stood at a much farther distance for the flight deck operations, since I haven't clue one about that. He'd wandered the troop billets, mostly out of force of habit, to see if anyone was f.u.c.king off.

He'd completely skipped the mess since, other than Sergeant Island and a couple of Chinese women, the cooks were all off humping mortars with the grunts.

Admin? Hmmm . . . if we decide to issue our own Combat Infantry Badges, note to self: CIBs for the cooks with the mortars and all the jarheads. But that's for later.

Ultimately, the sergeant major had ended up down by sick bay. Fortuitously, he'd ended up there just before the order came down: "Incoming wounded."

He really hadn't a clue about the language that sounded vaguely Spanish, or the several slaps he heard after pa.s.sing through the evac station.

"You stupid c.u.n.t, Tatiana," Elena said, delivering a series of slaps. "Not only is that the sergeant major, the next thing to G.o.d, but he's old enough to be your grandfather."

"If my grandfather had been half that much of a man," Tatiana answered, ducking the slaps as best she could, "I'd have f.u.c.ked him, too."

"Bah!" Elena exclaimed in disgust. "You are a hopeless, useless, silly little tramp. You should have been left behind . . . "

"Incoming wounded," came over the loudspeakers, interrupting the senior Romanian girl's tirade. "Three stretcher cases inbound on a CH-801. Two minutes out."

"I'll beat you later, b.i.t.c.h," Elena said. "For now, get on a corner of a stretcher."

Sergeant Major Joshua was impressed. Whatever indiscipline had been behind the slapping and shouting he'd heard, it seemed to have disappeared as soon as the call came. He followed three amazingly young female stretcher teams out the hatch and onto the flight deck in time to see a light airplane touch down about midway from bow to superstructure. Under positive control from one of the flight deck crew, wearing a yellow jersey, the plane stopped. More yellow jerseyed men came out of the woodwork and turned it around by main strength. From somewhere a crewman in purple ran out a fuel line and began pumping fuel in.

All in all, considering it's nighttime, I'm kinda impressed, the sergeant major thought. Not that I'd ever let that on to a bunch of squids.

The Romanian girls and their gurneys, wheeled stretchers, in other words, lined up neatly beside and behind the plane, one after the other. One of them, Joshua didn't know her name, seemed to be in charge and, so far as he or anyone could tell, really was in charge.

The first man out was the one who'd come in sitting beside the pilot. He stepped off, took two steps, and promptly collapsed to the deck. One of the girls bent to the collapsed man. It was really too dark to make out her face. Which is a pity, the sergeant major thought, as anytime somebody five-two and female tries to do a fireman's carry on someone six foot and male, she ought be commended for at least trying. He went over to help, but did no more than required to get the man across the little female's shoulders. Be a shame to take the glory away from her, Joshua thought.

They also had trouble with two of the wounded, the two who'd had to sit up in the plane for lack of s.p.a.ce. The other, the one lying down on the back ramp, took eight of them get onto the stretcher, which they'd collapsed, and still eight to lift the collapsed stretcher straight up. These were all big men and the girls were . . .

Well, they're little girls, Joshua thought. Even so, they mostly make up in gentleness what they lack in physical strength. And their teamwork and coordination are good. Might be a wash. At least on the flat deck of a s.h.i.+p.

The last of the seated men was the hardest. He screamed when they tried to pull him out. At that, the sergeant major went over to help. He was tall enough to get his hands under the wounded trooper's armpits, and strong enough to simply lift. The man still screamed, but this time the screaming was worthwhile.

One of the Romanian girls smiled something at him that Joshua hadn't seen in a very long time. He felt like the smile knocked twenty years of his age. Twenty? Hah! Forty!"

Then the girls were racing off, getting their charges to OR as quickly as anybody could expect. After a brief glance at the twitching posterior of the girl who'd smiled at him, the sergeant major looked up at the windows fronting the bridge. He could see Stauer's outline there and was pretty sure Stauer was watching him. Joshua pointed at himself, then at the plane. The figure in the window nodded. The sergeant major then jumped into the plane and began strapping himself in. In seconds, the CH-801 was roaring down the strip, heading out to pick up another load of the lamed and maimed.

D-Day, Bandar Qa.s.sim, Ophir

Gutaale, still on the roof of his main residence, stood alone, still staring at the flames to the east. The scope, the scale, and the sheer ferocity of the attack had him about convinced that he had not only come under the baleful gaze of the United States, but that, for some inexplicable reason, they'd decided the gloves were off.

Would they do this simply over the kidnapping of someone not even of their nation from their territory? That's hard to believe. But who else could do this kind of damage? My new air force; destroyed. My new armored force, bought so dearly from the Yemeni, Yusuf? Off of the air and probably destroyed. My palace by Nugaal; raided and burned, so the rumors say, and everyone in it killed. My personal guard ravaged just west of here.

No word from my parents in Rako and no way to get word to them or from them. My brother under siege in Bandar Cisman and, while him I can communicate with, his message is one of despair.

It's such an overreaction to a mere kidnapping that I just can't believe the Americans are behind it. But who else could be? Certainly no one here is capable of such monstrous mayhem.

One of the underlings of before came in bearing a radio transceiver.

"Chief," he said, "there are some problems at sea."

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

The two Hips carrying Terry Welch's much expanded party staggered in under an awful load. They touched down, and heavily, on the PSP flight deck. One landed about fifty meters shy of the bow and the other a similar distance from the superstructure. Cruz and the other pilot didn't even try to line them up with the s.h.i.+p before touching down. Rather, they waiting only until they were centered, albeit crosswise, and then set them down as quickly as practical, causing the things to bounce on their landing gear even more than usual. The blades nearly touched the deck, so heavy was the landing.

The wide-eyed, standing, swaying, utterly terrified cargo didn't try to move inside the bouncing behemoths until they were ordered out. As they left, via the side troop doors, one of Terry's people was there to physically push their heads down out of the way of the rotors. Others were standing by to lead the lines toward the superstructure and then down into the mess deck, where they could be sorted before being billeted. Feeding would probably have to wait, though at least some water could be issued.

Welch had been first off. He walked to a point between the choppers and watched the people unload, then follow their guides sternward. One tall woman from one of the groups burst free of the line and ran to stand before him. It was Ayanna, the ex-slave.

"My . . . English," she began, "not . . . good. I try . . . tell. For freedom . . . anything."

Then she threw herself into a highly embarra.s.sed Terry's arms, and kissed him on the cheek, just in case he didn't understand.

And I will not take advantage of that, he told himself, as she swayed away to rejoin the line. He sighed, Although she's awfully pretty and I wouldn't mind a date . . . or something like that. Haven't had so much chance to date . . . for quite a while now, come to think of it.

Welch forced the image of the girl-all three images, including the imaginary one, the one by firelight . . . without clothing-out of his mind and watched out for the accountant. As soon as he saw Mr. Dayid emerge from the Hip he walked briskly over and said, "Sir, you have a date with our lawyer."

Little by little, as portions of the force began filtering back to the s.h.i.+p or, at least, reporting that the hard parts were done, the almost unbearable stress and anxiety Stauer had been under began to lift. For this, he thanked both G.o.d and good subordinates. The news about Buckwheat Fulton was hard to take, but, Mourn later.

Still no word from Phillie, but the last word from Reilly was that she was doing fine and, "You know, boss, you oughta think about marrying that girl."

Which is pretty much a done deal. Note to self: One of these days, think about what changed you, or her, or the both of you, to finally make getting married seem like a good idea.

See Bridges about a prenuptual agreement? Nah. That's bulls.h.i.+t. If you're not sure about the person you're marrying, you shouldn't get married.

And I've come to be pretty sure about my Miss Potter.

Happily whistling the riff from "Lawyers, Guns, and Money," Bridges was already waiting by a two-station battery of computers, in a semi-lighted container on the deck just forward of the mess deck. He smiled and rubbed his hands together as soon as Terry brought Mr. Dayid in. Lox was there, as well, in case it proved necessary to bypa.s.s some IT security system or other.

"Sir," Bridges said, "it's a pleasure to meet you. Now, a.s.suming Terry has explained . . . "

"One percent of everything I recover to me and mine, the rest to you," Dayid said. "I am amenable."

"I see that he has explained," Bridges said, smiling. "Very good. Now if you will have a seat and direct me to our first target . . . "

"We should do this by size and liquidity and work our way down," Dayid said. "If you agree, the largest single liquid account is with Hottinger's, in Na.s.sau." As Bridges began to pull up the already bookmarked website for the bank, Dayid added, "The account number is ABZ305697. The pa.s.sword is 30127. And since you have another computer, I can begin working on other a.s.sets of the less liquid sort . . . "

Dayid stopped for a moment, then said, "I feel bad, you know, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my chief like this and leaving him vulnerable to the ravages of Khalid who is, I a.s.sure you, no saint either."

Bridges shrugged. "Don't worry about that overmuch. Khalid stiffed us in minor ways on the contract. He thinks he owns some a.s.sets that he is going to discover he doesn't."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX.

Kill one; terrify a thousand.

-Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"

D-Day, Yemen

As the heaviest, Kravchenko tossed himself shoulder-first against the door, then fell to the floor, weapon aimed out, as the twin leaves burst open. Konstantin and Musin followed the slammed-open door, weapons to shoulders. Inside they found a large room, lavishly rugged and cus.h.i.+oned, with walls gilded in geometric shapes. Fully half a dozen doors opened onto the room, though all of them were closed. Whatever the layout of the place, it must have been well insulated as the sound of firing from outside almost completely disappeared once they were past the door.

Lada followed close behind, stepping over Kravchenko, pointing and shouting, "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d sleeps in there."

Following the woman's direction, the major and Musin ran to a closed door. Musin kicked it open while the major rushed in, aiming his submachine gun at Yusuf's head and saying, calm as you please, "Any excuse is a good one."

Musin followed Konstantin in, slinging his submachine gun, jumping on the bed, and rolling both of the girls flanking the Yemeni off the bed with his booted foot. He bent and flipped Yusuf onto his more than ample belly, then dropped down and pinned the man's hands behind him. Konstantin produced some sticky tape he'd gotten from the Americans on the s.h.i.+p and began to wrap Yusuf's hands together. Without a word, Lada went for a laptop lying on a marble table against one wall.

Meanwhile, Litvinov reported via short range radio, "Comrade Major, Galkin's down; dead I think. I'm pinned except that I can probably go over the wall. How far I'll get before they mount the wall and put one in my back I wouldn't bet on."

"s.h.i.+t!" the major exclaimed, even as he continued wrapping Yusuf's hands. Maybe Galkin was queer and maybe he wasn't. But by G.o.d he was our queer and the f.u.c.kers are going to pay for that.

From the open central bay, Kravchenko called, "Comrade Major, I have the wog's three sons in tow."

"Shoot them," Konstantin ordered. Immediately, the apartment was filled with a chorus of approximately post-p.u.b.escent male voices, screaming, and a cacophony of wailing female ones. "The old man wants this b.a.s.t.a.r.d punished." Yusuf began to scream before Musin cuffed and punched him into silence. Of Litvinov, the major asked, "What the f.u.c.k happened, Lit?"

"Based on where the guards' bodies are, Comrade Major, I think Galkin saw someone coming for his position. He never said a word, just opened fire. They must have seen him at about the same time-before they went down, anyway-because some of them got a few shots off, too. Right now, as I said, I'm pinned on the parapet."

"Praporschik Baluyev?" Konstantin called.

"Here, Comrade Major. Situation is nominal. I am in good position to cover Litvinov if he can run for it."

Konstantin switched radios. "Falcons?" he called.

"Here, Major," the senior of the helicopter pilots answered.

"Things have gotten complicated," Konstantin said. "A 'quiet' withdrawal is no longer an option. Come get us. I'll fill you in on the situation on the way."

"Roger. Ten minutes," the pilot answered. However surly a b.a.s.t.a.r.d he may have been before, once action had begun his voice and tone went entirely businesslike.

"So long?"

"Have to get the birds started and warmed up," the pilot said. "Remember, we didn't have, couldn't carry, enough fuel to both keep them running and make our rendezvous . . . not and carry all your equipment, all of you, and a minimum of our own ordnance."

"Understood. Please hurry."

"Wilco, Major."

"I've locked the women and very small children in one of the apartments-it actually looked more like a dungeon-Comrade Major," Kravchenko said, entering the room.

Lada followed. "It was a dungeon," she said. "Yusuf's s.e.xual preferences were a bit . . . odd." She didn't elaborate.