Joint Task Force #4: Africa (25 page)

“Don’t feel good, does it?”

Rockdale shook his head. “No. Think we should put the helmet back on?”

The two discussed it a few minutes before deciding to leave it off. That way, if there was any more swelling, the head would have room to swell and not be constricted by the helmet. They didn’t know if it was the right decision or not, but sometimes any decision is better than none.

Rockdale pulled his sleeve back and looked at his watch. “It’s near midnight,” he said.

“Sounds like time for dinner,” MacGammon replied, opening his survival vest and pulling a chocolate energy bar out. “You ought to have one, Rocky. With your temper, you probably burned a lot more calories than me.”

The two men sat silently as they nibbled on the survival bars, the jungle night sounds more apparent as the ability to see the surrounding area, which was small during daylight, had now shrunk to the area within which the small fire illuminated. Every so often, Carson’s moans drew their attention. His moans came now and then, in differing tones, but they came—just enough to reassure them that he was still alive. When they failed to hear a moan for more than a few minutes, one of them would scurry the few feet to where he lay and check on him.

The two talked softly as if nightfall caused them to be wary of everything. The primary topics centered on Carson and the rescue that would surely come tomorrow. The two agreed Carson was to go first, even if it meant them having to wait for the helicopter to return. After a while, they decided one would sleep while the other stayed awake, keeping the fire burning, and ready to wake the other if something happened. They would trade places after a couple of hours. MacGammon insisted on taking the first watch. So, after the two dripped water into Carson’s open mouth and watched him swallow it, Rockdale lay down on the parachute. He shut his eyes, expecting sleep to be elusive.

It seemed as if he had just shut his eyes when MacGammon shook him. “Rocky, your turn, shipmate.”

Rockdale yawned. “Was I asleep?”

“If you weren’t, then you put on a pretty good show.”

“Anything happening?” Rockdale asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

“What? With your snoring? If there was anything with designs on making a dinner of us, your snoring scared it away.” MacGammon patted him on the shoulder. “If you ever decide to get married, Rocky, pick a woman with bad hearing.”

Rockdale moved to the tree where MacGammon had been and sat down. Another yawn escaped.

“You going to be alright?”

“If you mean, will I stay awake, of course I will. I’ve stood midwatches before. There’s not much difference.”

MacGammon laughed. “Rocky, you’re one mixed up dude, you know. ‘Ain’t much difference’ my ass. You fall asleep out here, no telling what’ll wake you up.”

Rockdale ignored him, drawing his knees up, and resting his arms on them for a moment before wiping the sweat from his brow. He was unsure whether his flight suit was damp from sweating or the earlier rain. A small compensation was that the fire was on the other side, so only the light reached him and not the heat.

MacGammon lay down. “By the way, it’s three. I let you sleep a little longer than two hours. Too worked up to sleep myself,” MacGammon pulled his helmet on and strapped it.

“You’ll overheat with that on,” Rockdale offered, “Damn.” Why couldn’t he just keep quiet and keep the conversation to a minimum with this taciturn sailor.

“Don’t be stupid, Rocky. If I go to sleep without it on, those mosquitoes on your neck will be over here draining every ounce of blood from me.”

Rockdale slapped the back of his neck and then looked at his hand. Several dead mosquitoes and a smear of blood marred his palm. How’d he know?

“Look at your face,” MacGammon said, laughing.

The sailor had turned around to face Rockdale, propping
himself up on his elbow. MacGammon flipped around on his back and laid flat on the parachute. “I’ve already had my three hours of slapping the hell out of them. Your turn now.”

Rockdale cleaned his hand on his flight suit. Then he took the other hand and ran it lightly over his face, feeling a slight burning sensation from where the briars had scratched him earlier. He didn’t feel any mosquito bites, but the back of his neck itched. He turned up the small collar of his flight suit, covering most of his neck. Wasn’t much he could do in this natural-wildlife sauna to stop everything that wanted some part of his life force.

Rockdale leaned against the tree, the back of his head touching the trunk. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times, trying to achieve just a little inch or two more of comfort. A crackle from the fire drew his attention. The edge of the parachute was several feet from the fire. Not much chance of a spark or ember setting it afire.

Moments later, he heard a soft snore coming from MacGammon.

Rockdale yawned. Small sounds from the jungle broke the silence around him, and the hot smell of decay rode the light wind. He hadn’t slept well the previous night in the hotel in Monrovia, but then he never slept well when he wasn’t in his own bed. His dad, who had spent years on the road as a Kodak representative, used to tell him that for a man to have a good night’s sleep, he needed to be in his own home, in his own bed, and with his own wife. Rockdale didn’t have a wife, but in Rota, where he shared an apartment with two other aircrewmen from VQ-2, he had his own bedroom. His stomach growled. And he had his own bathroom—the fourth element of comfort. He shut his eyes, concentrating on his stomach, willing away the tightening constrictions of his intestines. It wasn’t as if
they had toilet tissue in the middle of the jungle, and he wasn’t going to wipe his ass with any of these leaves. Twenty-four more hours at the most. He shut his eyes for a moment.

His eyes shot open and for a moment Rockdale shivered slightly. Falling asleep on watch was a mortal sin in every one of the military services, but to fall asleep in the wild jungles of Africa was— On one side of them, a bunch of terrorists running loose, laughing and giggling over the prospects of killing Americans. Then, somewhere nearby, this ragtag African National Army wandering around the jungle like a bunch of wild locusts, destroying everything in their path. And on the final side—
Can there be more than two sides?
Rockdale wondered—there were the wild animals and things that truly owned the jungle.

He put his hands on the ground and pushed himself up, the wet underarms of the flight suit pulling away some hair with it. Walking across the top of the spread parachute, Rockdale moved to the fire. He squatted and grabbed some twigs from the pile MacGammon made. Then, one at a time, he placed the wood on top of the fire. What if he hadn’t wakened? What if the fire had gone out while he was sleeping? He shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it. The fire didn’t go out, and he couldn’t have been asleep that long. It was still dark. He tossed the last twig into the fire, brushed his hands off, and in the dim light Rockdale looked at his watch. An hour! He’d been asleep an hour? “Damn.” It’d be dawn soon.

The bushes moved on his left, causing him to jump. His sleepiness vanished. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. After a minute of standing motionless and hearing no other sound from the bushes, Rockdale turned back to the tree, stopping along the way to squat beside Carson. The man’s face looked black in the faint firelight and as he watched, it
seemed the skin on Carson’s face moved. He reached forward, and when he did a horde of mosquitoes flew away.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, drawing his hand back. He waved it back and forth across Carson’s face, a face now covered in tight, white spots, marking where mosquitoes had feasted. What about him? He reached up and ran a hand across his own face, his vision clouding for a moment as mosquitoes flew away.

Rockdale glanced at MacGammon. The man had his visor down, the collar of his flight suit turned up and the Velcro snaps pulled tight. MacGammon had his gloves on. Mosquitoes hovered over the sleeping man, but most of his skin was covered.

Rockdale picked up Carson’s helmet. He looked at the helmet and at the injured man, weighing whether to put it back on or not, wondering if the swelling had stopped. As he watched, mosquitoes covered Carson’s face again. Wouldn’t matter if the mosquitoes killed him, though he knew there was little chance of that. He gently lifted Carson’s head, drawing a moan from the man. It took several minutes to wrap up Carson like MacGammon. Getting the helmet on the unconscious man had been the hardest. Carson’s head dipped and bobbed like one of those bobble heads, Rockdale thought. Finally, finished with Carson, Rockdale found his own helmet, shook it to make sure nothing had crawled inside it, and then slipped it over his head, swinging the visor down. He pulled his gloves tight. By the time Rockdale sat back down at the tree, he was covered from his feet to the top of his head, and sweat poured down his head and neck, running under the flight suit onto an already saturated T-shirt. The helmet did keep the feasting mosquitoes off of Rockdale, but it muffled sounds and blinded his peripheral vision. If anything or anyone decided to approach the three stranded aircrewmen
by any direction other than directly ahead, Rockdale would never see or hear them until it was too late.

Rockdale stared at the fire, his eyes locked onto the ebb and flow of the flames. He yawned. A few minutes later his head fell forward, and shortly his soft snore joined MacGammon’s.

The bushes to his right moved. A frightened small creature of the night dashed out, jumped over MacGammon, and quickly disappeared into the thicket on the other side. Rockdale never saw the young lad who stepped into the clearing.

”SET CONDITION THREE,” THE VOICE BLARED FROM THE INTERNAL
Communication System speakers lining the fuselage of the EP-3E.

Senior Chief Pits Conar unstrapped himself. The aircraft was still climbing, so it was a good time to grab some of that fresh coffee brought aboard. He took his helmet off and laid it on the shelf behind the pilot. This time he was the extra flight engineer, so he had nothing to do in the cockpit while the pilot, copilot, and flight engineer manned the controls during the ascent. He pushed the curtains aside and stepped into the operating area of the aircraft.

Throughout the fuselage of the EP-3E, crewmen reached under their seats, pulled levers, and turned their seats forty-five degrees either right and left so that they faced the technical consoles lining the bulkheads of the aircraft. Some kept their flight gloves on, while most tucked them into the leg pockets of their flight suits. Fingers flew as operator attention focused on the sophisticated electronic equipment. A few unbuckled and headed to the galley in the aft section of the aircraft, to grab cups of coffee before they reached
cruising altitude and turned toward the area where their shipmates waited for rescue. The white lights for takeoff had been switched off. Green computer consoles provided faint light. Each console had individual position lights, but the white light from these low-watt bulbs destroyed night vision as much as having the overhead lights turned—on so people used them sparingly.

Senior Chief Pits Conar walked carefully through the maze of activity and a minute later was sipping coffee from a paper cup. He didn’t care one iota for Badass Razi, and him jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft was, as far as Pits was concerned, a bullshit display. Razi was good at that. Spotlights and brownnosing. For Razi to bail out
supposedly
over concern for his sailors conflicted against everything Pits had come to believe about Razi. Pits shuffled to the side, moving out of the way of others waiting to fill their cups. Holding on to the overhead railing, he took another sip, waiting for it to cool further. The coffee reached the lip of the cup, so he’d wait until he had drank a little of it before starting back up the crowded aisle to the cockpit.

He shook his head. Razi was a loud self-serving asshole who could conjugate any verb in the English language as long it was in the first-person singular. The man only worked to impress those around him, and then he goes and does something like this. Pits sighed, took a sip, and figured the coffee level was low enough to head back. He worked his way into the line again, poured a second cup, and started forward toward the cockpit, precariously balancing a cup in each hand.

Razi, if this is some sort of show-off, then I’m personally going to try to kick your muscle-bound piece of shit ass from here to Rota.

Pits weaved through the operators, taking care not to
trip over open boxes scattered along the aisle where they had been shoved for easy access. Everyone worked to turn-on, check-out, and step-off their position. Opposite the four passenger seats were the cryptologic technicians—CTs, everyone called them. The five operators were hunched forward, watching numbers and symbols zoom across panoramic displays. Everyone of the spooks had their mouthpiece shoved against their lips, and Pits noticed all of them seemed to be speaking at once. How in the hell they were able to keep track of the multiple data they received on their gear was beyond him. He had long ago given up trying to figure out what in the hell CTs were. Maybe you had to have some sort of glitch in your psyche to do the memory games they did. He recognized three of the CTs. Usually every mission had a CT trainee flying with them. Pits’s lower lip bunched against his upper and his brow wrinkled causing the ball cap, slapped over his balding head immediately after removing his flight helmet, to slip forward. For this mission, the mission commander should have insisted that the spooks bring five qualified operators. Two of the CTs that Pits recognized were gifted musicians. Free beer and friendly women seemed to migrate to these two when they got their guitars going. Musicians and mathematicians—most CTs were good in either one or both of those fields, and Pits could never figure out the relationship between those hobbies and their profession. How Razi became a CT was beyond him. The man couldn’t even whistle—
unless it was to draw attention to himself.

An aviation technician operator, with her back to Pits, bumped him as he stepped around her. Neither apologized; it was too common of an incident to even bother acknowledging.