A God in Ruins

by Leon Uris

  They saw the enemy! Survivors crawling out of the rubble some fell to their knees and pleaded not to be killed while others held up white flags of surrender.

  “Grubb to Dogbreath.”

  “Yo.”

  “I’ve got maybe forty, fifty Irans trying to surrender.”

  Dogbreath grunted, about to give an order to kill them. There were no contingency plans for prisoners. Unless we take them down, they might organize for a suicide charge ... a couple of lucky shots and the SCARAB could be hit in a vital spot.

  “Dogbreath to Grubb. Have your people fire over their heads and advance down yard. Try to herd them back into the far end. If and only if you detect hostile gunfire or they make any gesture toward us, cut them down.”

  The Marines moved their perimeter a bit farther, then a bit farther.

  The raid had reached its critical moments. It was going too smoothly, Jeremiah thought. Nothing can shoot and maneuver like this! First blip. An Iranian machine-gun squad was creeping atop the west wall. Grubb ordered his night-vision, shoulder firing TOW gunner to lay one on. He did. Out in the courtyard the Irans seemed to get the RAM communication and backpedaled.

  Moment of truth.

  “Dogbreath to Ropo. What’s going on?”

  “Ropo, can’t talk.”

  Dogbreath now tensed from the torture of not knowing if Bandar Barakat had been located and was alive.

  Ropo crept up a circular staircase that must have been built for midgets. His team struggled behind him like a toy train taking a sharp curve. Muffle the fucking grunts!

  Ropo’s hand reached for the next step. No step there. He patted the

  floor. He had reached a landing. Ropo wormed himself onto it in a

  sitting position, back against the wall; he held his gun at the ready

  and flicked on a flashlight to locate the apartment door. He felt a

  presence. Ropo looked up to see a fat man standing over him with a pistol a few inches from his head, and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the flashlight was kicked from his hands. Barakat!

  The man said something in Farsi.

  “Barakat,” Ropo said loudly, “if you shoot me, you’re dead.”

  “Israelis?” asked the fat man.

  “We’re from Mars,” Ropo answered, tempted to grab Barakat’s ankles and dump him.

  The conversation could be heard over the command network. Those in the SCARAB sweated. The Marine below Ropo had inched to the platform but could see next to nothing. Barakat’s uneven breath became ponderous.

  “Where are your guards?” Ropo asked.

  “I shot them the instant I heard the bombs.”

  “Can I turn on my flashlight and talk?”

  The Marine behind Ropo shined a light into Barakat’s face. Ropo slammed his forearm into Barakat’s knee, sending him crashing. He fired.

  “Oh, God, no!” Duncan whispered as he heard the report of the bullet.

  “We’ve got him! We’ve got him. We’ll be back in seven or eight minutes.”

  Jeremiah Duncan allowed himself to decompress for the first time since receiving orders to fly to Washington. No joy, no elation, no sense of final victory. Duncan, a religious man when unseen by others, nodded to God in thanks for seeing things his way this time. Novinski, Quinn, and IV reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Jeremiah accepted the touch, hunched his shoulders, and cracked his neck.

  The old Marine allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. Jesus, he thought, all the years of planning, how many years? Forty?

  Planning maneuvers, raids, battles, campaigns. Now at last was a

  close-to-perfect operation. At least, up to this point. It seemed

  like something went always awry after the first shots were exchanged,

  and it usually boiled down to every Marine improvising with the man on his left and right to win their piece of turf. This was sublime!

  “Quinn to Novinski. What kind of read can you get on your display of the courtyard?”

  “Novinski here. Marsh’s squad at ten o’clock from west wall to one-third of courtyard. Grubb’s people making a move back toward SCARAB. Separation between Marines and Irans is at least sixty yards. Hold it, hold everything, something’s lying on the deck about twenty yards behind Marsh’s squad.”

  “What?”

  “Quinn to Dogbreath! I see it, too! Unexploded bomb!”

  “This is Grubb. I see it loud and clear.”

  “Dogbreath to Grubb. Can you read the stripes?”

  “Black and blue, a cluster bomb!”

  “Dogbreath to Grubb. Stop! You are ordered not to throw yourself on that bomb. It won’t help. Pull Marsh’s squad back, dump your ammo and missiles as planned for weight reduction. Marsh.”

  “Marsh here.”

  “Cover Ropo’s and Grubb’s people. Do not, repeat, do not fire near that grounded bomb, but keep those Irans pinned back. Allow no forward movement.”

  “Marsh here. I’ve got it.”

  Half of Grubb’s squad ditched their ammo clips, laid their missiles down, and ran up the ramp. They had to jam their way around the operating table and dispensary that had been lowered from the ceiling.

  Ropo’s five-man squad burst out of the tower dragging a dumpy captive whose legs would not keep up. Into the plane! Marsh pulled his men back .. . back .. .

  “Dogbreath to Grubb. We’ve got the fat man. Keep bringing your people back, but softly and at the ready.”

  Gunfire cracked and echoed throughout the yard. Either some Irans had regrouped, or maybe there was a patrol outside the fort that had rushed back.

  “Dogbreath to Grubb. Barrage them with TOWs. Do not! Do not fire near that bomb laying out there.” As the missiles zipped and struck, the end of the yard choked in blood and agony.

  Bandar Barakat was shoved forward toward the front cabin, tied and gagged. Grubb and Marsh remained outside of the SCARAB as their men went up the ramp.

  Jeremiah Duncan looked it all over quickly, seized Quinn’s arm. “If anything happens to me, it’s your command, Quinn.”

  Quinn protested. “Don’t like it.”

  Dogbreath repeated, “Yea or nay?”

  “This is Quinn. I’ll do it.”

  “Dogbreath to Cherokee and IV.”

  “Yo.”

  “Yo.”

  “Prepare the SCARAB to go.”

 
  Aye, aye.

  “Yo.”

  It happened neither violently nor loudly, but with a powerful womphl Outside, Marsh went down. The left-side bubble of the SCARAB’s windshield popped in, followed by a roiling hiss of air and a shower of razor-sharp metal squares and explosive buckshot. The top of Cherokee’s head was sliced clean off; behind him, Jeremiah Duncan’s and Novinski’s faces were blown away. IV caught a ricochet boring into his left side. He was still alive!

  Quinn had been kneeling over Barakat, tying him up, and was out of the direct line of the bomb’s wrath. Oh, Jesus! Quinn’s head screamed! He doubled over, his forehead opened and bleeding down his face. He fought his way back from unconsciousness with an unknown power keeping him alive and awake.

  “Corpsman,” Quinn called softly, “I’m hit, when you’ve got a chance.”

  Outside the plane, Grubb ran to Marsh, flung him over his shoulder, and ran for the SCARAB. Marines jumped out of the plane to cover and assist them. Marsh’s leg dangled by a cord of sinew.

  Dr. Wheat went forward. “Three body bags! Dogbreath, Novinski, and Cherokee are dead.”

  Ropo’s men tugged the bodies and laid them out in the center aisle, then fished for the body bags.

  “IV and Quinn,” Dr. Wheat called.

  “I’m all right,” Quinn gasped. “Are you hit? I just have a little trouble seeing.”

  IV was alive and groaning. He pointed at his side. Wheat ripped his shirt in half to get to the wound and applied a pressure pack, hard now, hard. “Now, don’t you go into shock on me, IV You’re going to make it if we can s
top the bleeding. Talk.”

  “That’s better, count me in,” IV rasped.

  “Doc! We got a mess back here.”

  “IV, press hard. Quinn, I’ll send Corpsman Lew up for you.”

  “Yo.”

  The doctor got Marsh on the operating litter and examined the mangled limb and mapped a course of action. He applied a tourniquet and sent Corpsman Lew forward.

  Lew had Quinn sit, then knelt alongside him. “Hang on, bubba.” He wrapped a large cloth over Quinn’s head and wiped the blood from his face. It was very difficult to move, for the cabin ceiling was dripping with the blood of the three dead Marines and the floor was slimy with it.

  “Talk to me, bubba. Where did you get hit?”

  “I think the back of my head and the front of my head.”

  “How’s your attitude?”

  “I’m okay, goddammit.”

  “Talk about shithouse luck,” Corpsman Lew said. “Back of your neck is ripped, and it looks like a mole furrow right around to your forehead .. . and that’s got a nice hole in it. You gonna be all pretty again, Quinn. I’m taping the gash together and wrapping your head tight. We’ll get that bleeding .. . yes, sir.”

  “Whew, Lew, be gentle, mother.”

  Corpsman Lew gasped for breath after finishing a very rapid binding.

  “Who got hit?” Quinn cried.

  “Cherokee, Novinski, and Dogbreath are dead. IV is hurting. Marsh’s wounded. We’ll have to go into IV’s belly and take a look.”

  Quinn’s mind bolted through bashings of pain. He gave himself a few seconds more to align with the situation. Think, son, think. He dared open his eyes, and the first sight of the cabin caused him to vomit. That was good. The puking was over with.

  It became clear. IV was the only one who could fly the SCARAB. Quinn called for Doc Wheat and Grubb.

  The doctor checked Quinn quickly. “You’ll last for a while. Corpsman Lew. Shot of penicillin in the ass for Quinn and prepare some plasma. I’ve got to get back and take Marsh’s leg off.”

  “No,” Quinn snapped. “IV is the only one who can fly us out. He has priority on medical attention. Grubb.”

  “Yo.”

  “Dogbreath told me to take over. Do you have any problem with that?”

  “I heard him,” IV rasped.

  “Hell, no, Gunner,” Grubb said.

  “As I understand it,” Quinn said, “we’ve got two emergencies, Marsh and IV IV is the only one who can fly us out. Keep him awake and out of shock.”

  “What about Marsh?” Dr. Wheat asked.

  “Corpsman Lew is assigned to Marsh till you can get back to him.”

  “But I can’t fly, I can’t move,” IV agonized.

  “You can tell me how to fly. Remember, I’ve logged a few hours’ flight time on this plane,” Quinn said.

  “Can you see at all, Quinn?”

  “We’ll work that out. No choice. Kindly stay alive, IV. I need Jarvis front and center.”

  Master Tech Sergeant Roosevelt Jarvis had been seated close to the front cabin. He wormed his way in.

  “Novinski has bought it,” Quinn said.

  “Shit.”

  “Take Dogbreath’s seat and run down our systems.”

  As Quinn cleared his eyes of blood, Jarvis came up with death-notice news. “All the systems are inoperative. The display panels have been blown away. I don’t think we’ve even got radio.”

  “Quinn to Grubb.”

  “Yo.”

  “I need some paper maps and a pair of field compasses. I’m keeping Jarvis here with me.”

  Quinn turned to the blown-in window. “IV, any way we can fly with the window out?”

  No.

  “Mercer, this is Quinn. Get your tool kit and come up here.”

  They moved with unerring grace through the slippery carpet as Quinn gave orders between thumps of blood spilling down his face.

  A break! The window frame was made of titanium and intact. Mercer measured the hole.

  “I think the back of my seat is titanium,” Quinn rasped. “Remove it and see if you can use a piece.”

  “No way we can attach it in the frame.”

  “All right,” Quinn said, “do you have any clamps?”

  “Yeah, four or five.”

  “How’s this: wrap the piece with plastic from the spare body bags and canvas from the litters. We clamp it all together, put it inside the plane, and tie it with rope wire through the struts. Anybody got a better idea?”

  The odor of dead parts now mingled with a waterfall of sweat.

  “Jarvis. Help me into Cherokee’s seat,” Quinn ordered.

  “Yo.”

  Grubb took off Quinn’s soaked bandage and replaced it.

  “Grubb. I want you to stay up front. Turn the back cabin over to Ropo. Then snuggle in close to Jarvis. Jarvis, you read the instruments and point. Grubb, take my hand and place it on the proper levers. IV, you still there, buddy?”

  “In a manner of .. .” IV gasped.

  “Have you got the drill? Stop me if I’m making a bad move,” Quinn said.

  Quinn made the mistake of reaching to give IV a pat. IV’s stomach seemed bubbling to explode. “If we can’t get this SCARAB up and away, I think we fight it out to the last man,” Quinn said to himself. “I’m not taking these men to an Iranian prison.” He punched the makeshift window. May not hold.

  “Mercer, make a brace or a cross over the window out of a couple of machine-gun barrels.”

  “/^ ^ ‘l “ Got it.

  No Iranian had crossed the “I dare you” line in the courtyard, but distant curses could be heard from the survivors, reaching to their depths for valor, collecting weapons amid the devastation, and craving a rally.

  The first shots rang over the courtyard, kicking up dirt near the

  SCARAB.

  “Ropo! Get all your TOW men out of the plane and give the Irans hellfire! Shoot up everything you’ve got! We need to buy ten minutes.”

  IV grunted the checklist to Grubb, who quickly located the switches and levers and moved Quinn’s hand to them. . Doc Wheat had screwed down the tourniquet on Marsh’s leg, turned him over to Corpsman Lew, and skidded on blood to the forward cabin to ease the pressure bandage off IV He probed. “I need a bigger flashlight here!”

  “Coming,” Mercer answered.

  “Holy Motherl” screamed IV.

  “Sulfa powder! Sulfa powder!” Wheat called, probing with forceps and fingers. “Geez pee se he cried, pulling out a piece of buckshot. “Sorry, buddy, I’ve got to cauterize you .. . don’t go into fucking shock on me. Who’s holding the flashlight?

  “Give me the light and tell Corpsman Lew I need the hot needle, and a couple slugs of brandy, then put this clamp in his mouth to bite on.”

  Outside, the Marine shoulder missiles laid rubble on rubble and broke up the Irans’ attempt to rally.

  “We’re running low on TOWs!”

  “Fire your clips till empty. There’s ammo ditched on the ground, right side of the craft.”

  “In like Quinn,” Mercer said, pointing at the unconventional window brace.

  “Kick it, hard,” Quinn ordered.

  It held.

  “IV.”

  “Oh, piss, what?”

  “If the ship doesn’t hold pressurization, how low do we have to fly?”

  “Under ten thousand .. .” he groaned.

  “Hot needle coming up!”

  A barrage of automatic fire wiped out all other sounds. Quickly, everyone clamped on earphone sound deflectors.

  “I’ve got your belly deadened best I can, IV, now drink this, then bite on your clamp. Go.”

  Wheat applied the needle. IV arched up, screamed. Held in place by strong hands, he settled down and a smile crossed his sweaty, bloody, tortured face.

  “Hey, Marine, good going,” Wheat said.

  “Jarvis, can you punch in an alternate system and try to bring up the

  CDU?”

  “All t
he display panels and LED readouts were shattered by the cluster,” Jarvis answered.

  “Do we have a radio?” Quinn asked.

  “Negative.”

  “Oh, Lord. Well, let’s see.” The head pain came on like a torrent until he had to bite his tongue and lower lip, hard. Come on, Quinn, for Christ’s sake, this is no time to pass out.

  Jams.

  “Yo.”

  “Jarvis, wipe the blood out of my eyes, then have the closest two men to Barakat remove his gag and get his face up here. What’s our fuel reading?”

  “No reading.”

  Quinn quickly ran through the problem. He had ledge red the weight of each piece of equipment. If he subtracted all the missiles and bullets shot up, subtracted the approximate weight of the fuel used, he might get a round figure on remaining fuel. He gave the problem over the intercom.

  “No questions, just answers,” he ordered.

  It appeared they could get off the ground and fly ... how long was moot

  .. .

  Quinn mulled taking a run down the courtyard with the nacelles at seventy-five degrees to save fuel. No .. . madness. What if, out of fear of running out of fuel, we flew in helicopter mode and made a soft landing somewhere in Iran when the fuel ran out?

  Fuck it! I’m going to take her high, put her into turboprop, and hope to God we can find the tanker. The decision had been made by Quinn. It would be better to crash than be captured.

  Barakat’s sweating face was pushed close to Quinn. “Stop trembling, Barakat.”

  “Am I friend or foe?” Barakat asked.

  “Damned if I know, but your ass belongs to us now. You going to help us get out of here?”

  “I try, I try.”

  “I’ve got a totally FUBAR display and systems.”

  “Try your altimeter,” IV moaned.

  Grubb switched the dials on. “Got a reading.”

  “Barakat, we’ve got two field compasses and a paper map. The altimeter appears to be working. I am going to fly by the stars. I want you to draw me a flight route for a rendezvous with a tanker at thirty-one-forty latitude and fifty-eight-twenty long.”

  “I try, but even if we reach it, how do we contact them?”