Whiplash (24 page)

Behind them, troops poured from the barracks. Most ran toward the front of the camp where the battle was raging, either jumping behind sandbags or into the zigging defense trench just outside the perimeter. A good dozen, however, ran to the south side of the camp where the gunfire was less intense, either unable to sort out what was going on or simply out of fear. Their retreat took them to within ten yards of the prisoner pen.

They huddled there for several minutes, unsure what to do. Then an illumination flare ignited overhead, close enough to cast shadows from the moving prisoners. It looked to the soldiers that a fresh attack was coming from that direction, and two of them began firing.

Hera had just found Tarid inside the pen when the gunfire began. She cursed—in English—pushed him to the ground, and began returning fire.

“Go!” she shouted. “Crawl out of here. Get away.”

Tarid twisted back on the ground. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m with Kirk.
Go!
Get out!”

The gunfire intensified. Tarid began crawling toward the back of the compound. Others were gathered there, crouched down. One fell, then another. Suddenly, the rest of the crowd rose en masse and ran toward the hole at the back of the fence.

Danny grabbed one, trying to stop him, but the others
bolted past, running toward the minefield with its cleared but unmarked path.

I
N THE TRENCH
, M
C
G
OWAN TRIED TO THINK OF SOME WAY
to escape. His rifle was at his feet, but he’d be dead by the time he got it in his hands.

“Now listen, you don’t want to shoot me,” he told the soldier.

The soldier heard the shriek of the men escaping and pulled the trigger. His first bullet struck McGowan at the very top of his armored vest, pushing him back.

The next bullets struck his forehead, killing him instantly.

T
HERE WERE TOO MANY PRISONERS FOR
D
ANNY TO STOP
, and finally he just moved aside.

“McGowan, there’s a whole bunch of them coming out,” he said over the radio. “Is it clear? Mac?”

Unaware that McGowan was already dead, Danny crouched down, waiting for Hera and Tarid, and yelling at the prisoners to stop when they ran by.

The first sign that something had gone wrong came a few minutes later, when one of the escaping prisoners strayed out of the path the bombs had created and stepped on a mine. Danny saw the flash—red rather than white, a blossom of color and death.

He got up and went to find out what was going on.

The man who had killed McGowan was the machine-gunner posted to the southwest pillbox. He had abandoned his post in a panic. But his confrontation with McGowan had steeled him, and now the coward was a warrior, a bold lion who threw himself against the side of the trench and began shooting at his enemies.

He killed two before he had to stop and reload. Danny, crouching by the fence line, saw the muzzle flashes and guessed what was happening.

As soon as the gun stopped flashing, he rose and ran to the trench, jumping down and racing forward.

His lungs pressed against his chest. But unlike yesterday, there was no doubt in his mind, no second-guessing. A single thought filled his mind: He had to take out the person shooting, or most of the prisoners would die.

The Sudanese soldier, meanwhile, had slapped a fresh magazine into his gun and rose to fire again. He was so intent on the shadows in the minefield that he never saw Danny coming around the tight corner a few yards away.

Danny fired a single burst from his SCAR. The bullets sliced through the soldier’s neck, making neat holes on the way in and craters on the way out. The soldier died without knowing what hit him.

Worried there might be someone in the pillbox, Danny continued along the trench. He nearly tripped over McGowan’s body. He sidestepped him, kept going.

When he reached the machine-gun post, he pumped a grenade through the opening and ducked.

The explosion sounded like a can of beans popping in a fire.

There was no one in the pillbox. He pulled the bullets from the gun, threw it over on its mount, and began running back.

It was only then that the fear he’d felt the night before returned. This time the emotion focused on McGowan—it was a fear, a knowledge really, that his man was dead.

Danny had lost men in combat before. Not many, but enough to know that it was both necessary and inevitably sorrowful. He dropped down near the young man, still hoping that he had survived. But the wounds were obvious, and even the downpour couldn’t wash away all the blood that had spurted from the dead man’s skull.

Danny felt sick to his stomach. He held his breath a moment, then stooped down and pulled McGowan up onto his back.

He seemed much lighter than he had just a few minutes earlier, when Danny had carried him through the minefield.

F
LASH BLEW UP THE TRUCK AS SOON AS THE PASSENGER
started to get out with his gun. Then he shot out the floodlights on the post above the compound and ran up along the fence to the prisoner pen, aiming to get an angle on the barracks door. By the time he reached it, however, the barracks were empty. All the soldiers had gone to the east side of the camp, where the battle seemed to be concentrated.

He crouched on one knee, hoping they wouldn’t come back, ready if they did.

Flash had been in several firefights, first in Iraq, then in Afghanistan. As different as they all were, as different as each one was from this, one thing tied them all together—the sharp pain at the top of his skull, right behind his left eye. A doctor—not in the Army, he worried about being kicked out if he mentioned it—had told him that the pains were related to stress, and either to quit what he was doing or not worry about them. Flash opted for the latter.

“Whiplash team, check in,” said Danny. “Boston?”

“We can keep this up all day.”

“Nuri?”

“Ditto.”

“Flash?”

“I blew the truck. I have the barracks covered. May be empty.”

“Hera?”

“I’m taking heavy fire.”

“Did Tarid get out?”

“He’s a few feet away. We won’t make it out unless you get this gun off of us.”

“Flash, can you help her?” asked Danny.

“On my way.”

“Hera, as soon as you can, get out of there.”

“No kidding.”

Starting along the fence, Flash realized that Danny hadn’t checked in with McGowan. Not a good sign, he thought.

T
HE LAST FLARE BURNED OUT, LEAVING THE CAMP BATHED
in the dull red shadow of a burning fire in the administration building.

Hera looked east, toward the gas tanks. The soldiers pinning them down were near the tanks, scattered behind the cement mounts for cover. A few fired indiscriminately, but the others were more disciplined, firing only when they had a target. The combination made it impossible to move without being shot.

Some of the prisoners were crawling slowly toward the rear of the pen, hoping to escape, but most of them were lying nearby, wounded or too paralyzed with fear to move.

The fiercest gunfire was coming from her right. A pair of soldiers were huddled below one of the gas tanks, taking turns firing into the pen. At first they’d had plenty of targets exposed and framed by the light. As the flare died, however, it became more difficult to aim. Afraid of return fire and confused by the steady rain, they resorted to holding their guns over their heads and firing short bursts, unaimed.

Hera nudged her way around two prone bodies to the corner of the pen, trying to get an angle on the men. She saw one rise at the edge of the cement pier that held the gas tank. She waited for him to straighten, then fired a single shot, hitting him in the temple.

The soldier spiraled back against his companion. Hera waited for the other man to turn and fire back, giving her a target. But his friend’s death had paralyzed him, and he stayed low, out of sight.

Hera grew tired of waiting. She started for the fence, planning to cut through and then flank the whole line of them behind the piers. But before she got very far, someone began firing in her direction. She froze as bullets cascaded overhead.

The slugs chewed everything up in front of her, including the body of one of the prisoners. She started backing away. Then a tremendous explosion scooped her up and tossed her toward the rear of the pen.

Flash had blown up one of the gas tanks.

D
ANNY CARRIED
M
C
G
OWAN’S LIMP BODY TO THE RAMP AT
the end of the trench. He put him down as gently as he could, tipping his shoulder forward and going to a knee to keep the dead man from flopping down. He winced as McGowan’s head thumped against the dirt.

“I’ll be back. I promise,” Danny told him.

He turned and ran to the perimeter fence, not even ducking, though bullets were flying everywhere. Another emotion had overcome fear, or suppressed it: recklessness.

It was a strange combination, to be scared of dying yet not caring at the same time.

Danny felt the force of the exploding gas tank even from where he stood. He dropped down to his knees.

“Hera, where are we?” he barked over the radio.

There was no answer. Danny ran toward the pen. God, I’ve lost another, he thought.

“Hera?” he repeated. “Hera.”

“I’m still in the pen. Still pinned down. One of the gas tanks just blew, but they turned the machine gun around on the southeast corner.”

Danny was at the fence of the prisoner area. The machine gun was at the corner of the perimeter, ahead to his right. He’d be under direct fire if he approached.

“Boston, where are you?” he said.

“Same old, same old,” said Boston. “South of the road.”

“That machine gun on the southern end in front of you—can you get some grenades in it?”

“Already trying, boss.”

“All right. Get their attention. I’ll get them from back here.”

“Working on it.”

The roof of the post was thick and sharply angled, designed to deflect grenades and absorb what didn’t bounce off. But its defenses were oriented outward, and Danny reasoned if he could get close enough, he could get his own grenade into it.

The problem was getting close enough to get a shot without getting killed. Having gone to the trouble of reorienting his machine gun so he could fire into the compound, the gunner wasn’t skimping on bullets.

Danny pushed his shoulder against the perimeter fence as he ran forward, staying on his feet until he saw the flickering yellow of the machine-gun muzzle as it fired. He put a grenade into the launcher and crawled forward to get a better angle, almost swimming in the mud.

How long had it been since he’d done something like this? He couldn’t even remember doing it in Dreamland.

After ten yards he still didn’t have much of a shot. The perimeter fence was in the way—he worried that if the grenade struck it, the shell might bounce back at him.

His best alternative was to shoot through the fence. The machine gun continued to fire, blasting away at the pen. Danny raised his right knee under his chest, then levered himself into flight. The world blurred into a black swirl as he ran, flames circling in the distance.

He was almost to the fence when he saw someone on his left.

One of the Sudanese soldiers crouched on the ground, staring at him with wide eyes, the outline of his body black against the background of the flames of the gas tank near the entrance to the camp.

The eyes showed surprise, and a question: Are you going to kill me?

Danny had no choice. The barrel of the man’s gun was already swiveling toward his chest.

Danny reached for his gun’s trigger, pulling twice. Six bullets flew into the space between the man’s eyes, permanently shutting them.

The machine gun stuttered on, the gunner oblivious to everything but the dancing shadows in the prisoner pen. From his perspective, that was where all the trouble was; he would kill them all.

The fence gave way as Danny hit it. He sprawled forward
against the chain links, abruptly stopping at a forty-degree angle. He pushed up, toes digging into the spaces in the fence. He surged forward, despite his fear. The links scraped against his knees.

His recklessness fled. But he was trapped now, unable to do anything but continue his attack.

The fence tottered forward but didn’t fall. Danny reached the top and stuck his rifle through the gap under the razor wire.

He could see the machine-gunner’s face, lit by the reflection of the nearby tank fire.

Not only was the launcher’s trigger heavy, but the rain and exertion had stiffened Danny’s muscles and dulled his sense of touch. The grenade leapt from the gun. The gunner started to duck, but it was far too late; the grenade hit the wall behind him and exploded.

“Hera! Go!” yelled Danny, pushing to slide back down the fence. “Go! Go! Go!”

H
ERA POKED
T
ARID TO MAKE SURE HE WAS STILL ALIVE.
H
E
groaned.

“Come on,” she said in Arabic. She pushed herself under him, then levered him upward, half dragging and half running toward the back of the pen. The machine gun had stopped, but there was still sporadic gunfire around the compound.

“Who are you?” muttered Tarid in Farsi as they reached the fence.

Hera told him in Arabic that she was there to rescue him.

“Why?” he asked, this time in Arabic.

“I’m with Kirk.”

“And who’s he?”

“A bigger fool than you are,” she said. “He thinks he can make money off of this.”

She’d practiced the answer; they wanted Tarid to think it was being done for money, the only motive an arms dealer would embrace.

Hera pulled him from the pen, rushing toward the hole
in the perimeter fence. She saw a body at the foot of the trench as she neared the minefield, but didn’t realize it was McGowan.

There was nothing she could have done if she had.

Tarid felt his strength and senses returning as they started through the minefield. Adrenaline started pumping again. A bullet had slapped against the fleshy part of his right thigh, burning and causing a great deal of pain but, as bullet wounds went, very little damage.