The Med (67 page)

The world wheeled. More of the land came into view, dry-looking mountains rising miles inland, the white buildings closer now. His mind, dimming, tried to creep away from him. He called it back, reluctantly, with questions.

Where are we going?

The hospital, they said.

Hospital? Where?

Does it matter?

Will they fix me up all right?

They'll weld you up, he reassured himself. It'll hurt, but you can take that.

Will they send me back to sea?

He lay there for a little space with his eyes closed, and mused. I'm forty-two, he thought over the roar of the engine, the silver piping in his brain. I'm divorced. My son is a queer. I met a woman I could have loved, but I left her. There's nothing else but my ship. And now I've lost her, too.

The crewman was bending over him. “How you doin', pal?” he shouted.

He moved his lips, not bothering with voice. “Beautiful.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No … don't think so. Where we headed?”

“America,”
the crewman shouted. “All the casualties bein' flown out to her. But they won't keep you long. Navy hospital for you, prob'ly Naples.”

He opened his eyes. “Where?”

“Naples. Italy. Ever been there?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured you had. But you looked kind of surprised.” The crewman grinned, popping gum. “Whassamatter? Don't you want to go to Napoli?”

“Yeah,” said Wronowicz again, drowsily. He thought for a moment of a brass bed, heavy, gleaming, solid as time and love, lashed securely where no harm would come to it. His eyes closed again. “Yeah. I want to go. In fact … got somebody there I mean to look up.”

And bit by bit, trustingly, forgetting the ship, forgetting past and future both, Kelly Wronowicz let himself slip at last into the black oil pool of sleep.

ASH SHUMMARI, SYRIA

This land, the commodore mused, was neither as bleak nor as unlovely as he had expected.

In fact it was beautiful. The road, five hundred feet below the hurtling helicopter, was a speeding ribbon, winding along picturesque hills, passing through quaint villages.

Ike Sundstrom cracked a vent, letting wind cram itself into the cockpit. It was cool at this height, cool and clean. He leaned back and took his helmet off, cradling it in his lap. Annoyance crossed his face as he saw the seat belt wrinkling his freshly starched fatigues. He flipped the collar points up, glad that he had thought, back in the States, to buy the anodized eagles that went with battle dress. Silver insignia would have been an instant giveaway to snipers that he was an important target.

I don't have to do this, he thought then. My assigned station is back aboard. But no—his place, really, was with the fighting men under his command.

Besides, his presence on-scene, in Syria itself, would reflect well in any subsequent citation.

He settled deeper into the seat, watching the ground rise into mountains. The pilot, beside him, tilted back the control and the helo began to climb.

Really, he thought, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

A quick raid, limited to ground forces and unarmed recon helos. Less than an hour of fighting and the hotel and airstrip had been secured. According to Haynes' last report, just before Sundstrom lifted from
Guam
's deck, hostage evacuation was underway. As soon as the last civilian was gone the withdrawal of troops would begin.

And after that, he thought savagely, let them settle their own goddamn squabbles. Palestinians, Maronites, Cypriotes, Syrians. Let the UN do it. We'll be well out of it and that's where we should stay.

The pilot was shouting something. He lifted the headphones and leaned toward the man. “Yeah?” he shouted.

“Sir, coming up on the border now.”

He raised his head. The sun was still up, but the sky was reddening. Dusk before long. He thought this swiftly, and then he saw the smoke. It rose above the still-hidden camp, fanning upward to a capped cloud of brown, thinning where the wind was moving it outward, toward the sea.

They came over the last hills and saw the airstrip and then the hotel complex. He saw that it was still burning, scattered fires, each sending its own pillar of smoke upward toward the approaching helicopter. The pilot pointed. Yes, Sundstrom thought, that's it. The tallest building. The thickest smoke was coming from there.

When they reached it he patted the pilot, made a circling motion. The man looked over at him.

“Let's take a look around.”

“We'd do better to minimize time over the LZ, sir. This is where we lost the other helo.”

“Okay, use your judgment. Let's go right in.”

As they settled he saw a square, the glitter of smashed glass. The open space was filled with vehicles. He could make out amtracs, jeeps. As they came in, the buildings swooping dizzily up toward them as the helo rocked on updrafts, he saw men between the vehicles. Green rectangles—he recognized them then. Litters.

“Are you flying out casualties?”

“Yes sir. Two planes inbound behind us.”

“No, I mean, what are your plans for this bird?”

“We're at your disposal, Commodore, far as my orders go. Do you want us to pick some of them up, get them back to the ship?”

“Not right away,” said Sundstrom. “I want them to get the best of care, of course, but I may need a chopper at any moment. Just put me down and stand by. Oh, and better have your copilot accompany me, too.”

“Aye, sir.”

They set down, the rotorwash blowing smoke away from the open space where skids met asphalt. He put his helmet on, tried to get out, then remembered the belt. He released it and jumped to the ground, bowing his head under the roaring rotors.

“Hello, Commodore. Welcome to Syria.”

Sundstrom returned a major's salute, glancing around. Haynes wasn't in sight. “Good afternoon. Where's the colonel?”

“He's in the hotel, sir. They're checking all the rooms one last time before we pull out. He should be out any minute.”

“What's the situation? Give me a report.”

“Well, the objective is secured, sir. We seem to have gotten here in time to save most of the hostages.”

“What about my men?”

“Your men, sir?”

“That's what I said, Major. What kind of casualties did my marines take?”

“Lost eight ground troops in the assault. Two officers in the recon copter. About a dozen wounded.”

“And hostages?”

“Eight dead so far. Still counting, but somewhere between eighty-five and ninety souls rescued alive, sir.”

“Not too bad.”

“No, they could have killed a lot more than that,” the major agreed.

The commodore looked toward the buildings. “That the hotel? That one on fire?”

“Yeah, that's it, sir.”

“What's the hostile body count?”

“I don't know, sir. Maybe the colonel does. Frankly, we're badly exposed here. I think we'd better just get the hell out and leave the toe-counting to the Syrians.”

“I hope we got all the bastards.”

“We're pretty sure none of them escaped. By the way—you sent one of your staff out, Lenson? His family was here?”

“I didn't send him anywhere. He deserted his post aboard ship, in direct contravention of my orders. Where is he?”

“With his wife and daughter. He was pretty disturbed when we found him. He got one of them, though, killed him with a piece of pipe. Turned out when we searched the body he was the leader. Intel's getting pictures before we pull out.”

“His family make it?”

“Yeah.”

There was, for the moment, nothing more to say. The officer had things to do and the commodore let him go, asking him to send Haynes by if he saw him. He stood off by himself, watching the troops move in and out of the building. The hostages were coming out now, men and women, a few children. The marines were helping, but most of them were walking without assistance. They didn't seem to have much baggage.

“Come on over here,” he said to the copilot, who was still standing behind him. “Here. You mind—it's set, just push this button.”

“Yes sir,” said the officer, taking the camera.

Two of the civilians were clinging together, a blond young man with dried blood on his face and a heavyset brunette. Sundstrom put his hand on her shoulder. “Hello. I'm Isaac Sundstrom, in command here. Are you two all right?”

“Moira Lieberman. Yes, thanks, we're okay.”

“You're in charge of these soldiers?” said the man. “We're glad as hell to see you. They were going to shoot both of us at sunset. When the firing started we hid inside an old safe. Snaggletooth—one of them—came in after us, started looking around, but by then your guys were coming in the back. So he ran. I understand they got him, upstairs.”

The beat of another incoming chopper swelled over the blaza. Sundstrom stood a little straighter, patted the holstered pistol, and settled the helmet tighter on his head. He thought of fastening the chinstraps, but decided not to. Still holding the woman's shoulder, he turned to face the copilot for a moment. The shutter clicked. He patted her and let go. “You go on ahead. Those helicopters putting down over there are for you. You'll be safe aboard a Navy ship soon.”

They thanked him again. As they rejoined the line an old woman left it, moving out from the group of civilians; she was carrying a dog in her arms. He watched her as she came toward him, came up to him.

“Ma'am?”

“God bless you,” she said.

He nodded, surprised, and she turned without another word and went past him, toward the helicopter. He looked after her thoughtfully.

Four men trotted by with a litter. He saw the face: a young marine, dead, one dangling arm bouncing with the bearers' pace. There were two corpsmen on the poles in front and two marines on the back. One of them was short, swarthy, the other a tall gaunt boy with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Sundstrom gestured to a trooper who seemed to be with them. The man scowled, but left the group and came slowly over to him. He was black. He had an air of command, but the commodore saw that he was only a corporal. The others set down the body to wait for him.

“Sir.”

“Are we boarding KIAs already? Are all the wounded taken care of?”

The man's look was flint-hard, opaque and hostile. Sundstrom dropped his eyes. “All our wounded are offloaded. Sir. That man on the litter was the last casualty, from up on the roof. One of my men. One of the best.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That all you wanted?”

“Yes. Thank you, Corporal.”

The man walked away. As he rejoined the others, Sundstrom heard a mutter, then a bark of sardonic laughter.

He ignored it, staring up at the hotel. Smoke was still streaming out of the second-story windows. He looked around him. Helos came in, squatted briefly, then lifted in a racket of sound and exhaust. Men crouched or leaned against the hulls of the 'tracks, grasping weapons with an exhausted but still-wary air.

Standing there, watching, he reviewed the day. It had gone well. Goddamn well, better than he had dared to hope. Haynes had probably called a frontal assault—he was not a man for finesse—but in spite of that there were not too many losses. Ten marines dead for ninety-some hostages rescued would read well in the
Post
and
Times.

Not a debacle, as he'd feared, after all! The worst part had been that morning, the naval gunfire snafu. Lenson and Flasher, his own officers. It made his face tighten just to remember it. It had been rank, blatant disobedience in action.

But goddammit, that, too, had turned out all right. Now, considering it with a cool head, he did not think explaining it would be insurmountable. The clearance to use supporting fire had come in half an hour after the 'tracks got moving again, all the way from Washington via CINCUSNAVEUR and then Roberts. Half an hour late.

A passing thought made him smile tightly. Bureaucracies. That very slowness of decision was probably the reason he'd succeeded. They had moved faster than Damascus and Moscow could make the decision to stop them. Yes, he'd definitely surprised them. Obviously no one had anticipated that the U.S. might resort to force.

But as yet—his mind returned to his central concern—no one up the line knew that
Ault
had fired before the authorization arrived. He had not reported his use of gunfire and air strikes until after the leading elements of the MAU were actually at the objective.

I'm sticking my neck out, he thought. But then, he would be writing the after-action report. The times could be adjusted, or better yet, just left off. Yes, and the same could be said of
Ault
's grounding. Success had many fathers, and if Urgent Lightning was a success, no one up the line was going to be too interested in finding fault with it.

No, he decided, there was no use in dragging it all out into the open. There were people who would use it to make him look bad, look like he had not exercised leadership. The men concerned were, after all, his officers. He could deal with them quite adequately in his own way.

He felt abruptly weary, then, sick of the whole business. The dodging and second-guessing and ass-covering. It was not what he had thought the Navy would be like when he was Lenson's age, or before that even, in Officer Training, so long ago. No, he thought, I lost that goddamn innocence, that naivete, a long time ago. The Navy was politics like everything else, and although he knew he was good at it he still hated it. It was not the way it should be anymore. Maybe it never had been. No, none of us in the Navy are supermen, he thought. We're just people.

But we get the job done, he thought.

He looked around. The hotel—the plaza—he decided to check the airliner and started walking toward it. Marines stood outside, smoking, their weapons draped over their arms. Behind them, by the cargo door, he made out the bumper of a parked pickup.