How far out would the Iraqi move before he turned to come in from the flank or behind? Not very far in this howling gale, Bell figured. It would be too easy to get turned around and not be able to relocate the firefight. Fifty yards max, Clicker judged.
The Camel rose to his feet and hurried ahead. Only a few more steps and he would again turn, another ten meters, before facing east and coming onto the dead and wounded enemy from the flank.
If the Satans lived, their eyes would be searching the wrong way, and when he was close, he would become part of the desert, and neither devil would see him before his Kalashnikov again spoke death to invaders.
Clicker Bell stayed low and attempted to see beneath the blowing sand. His efforts gained little. Downwind, where his vision was best, no enemy moved. The man had to be ahead of him and perhaps very close. Bell squished himself lower and began a slower crawl with his pistol in front and almost in line.
The Camel stared ahead, his eyes protected by a fold of his neck cloth and believed it was time to drop to the earth and become one with the desert.
Nouri, the Soldier of God's eyes lowered, and to his disbelieving horror he saw a prone figure pointing a weapon at his chest.
So close he could almost touch the barrel, The Camel saw the muzzle flare and the pistol's recoil even as he felt the numbing impact of the first bullet. His knees weakened before a second bullet drove surprising agony into his chest, but he was nearly beyond feeling when the third struck home.
Nouri The Camel's final thought was that he had stumbled upon a nest of western devils.
For the instant it took to level his .45 and fire, Bell feared that the Iraqi's finger was also closing around his rifle's trigger, but the Colt boomed, its sound puny in the rush of wind, and Bell hammered a second and a third heavy bullet into the middle of the target in front of him.
The Iraqi went down in a soundless collapse, his knees striking and toppling his body forward so that his dead eyes looked directly into Clicker Bell's.
For a very long moment, Bell held his pistol on the Iraqi's features ready to slam home another round, but the man was deader than the desert, and Bell began to look around.
No other forms rose in challenge, and Clicker expected that the Iraqi was alone. He scrambled to his feet and lowered his pistol's hammer to half cock. He reholstered and turned to his dead enemy.
The Colonel saw Bell returning through the gloom and sand dragging a dead man with the enemy's Kalashnikov slung across a shoulder.
"Damn, Bell, you got him. Hell, I didn't even hear the shooting."
Clicker paused only to reorganize. "He walked right up to me, Colonel.
"What we've got to do now is get him inside with us, so no one will be looking close at this part of the desert. I'll drag him ahead. You come close behind with the radio, my Barrett, and what's left of our water. If you lose sight of me, stop instantly, and I'll come back for you. Don't start looking for me, or we might never connect."
"Got it, Staff Sergeant. Move out."
The hide entrance was where Bell thought it was, and the back entrance was nearly covered by blown sand. Clicker liked that because once they were in, the sand would again blow and even better disguise the entrance. If the storm howled for another hour or more there would be no trace of their passage or the firefight, except for a few expended rounds, of course. The desert might bury them or leave each exposed and shining like a headlight. Bell hoped for burying, but with spent cartridges you could never tell.
He heaved the dead Iraqi inside and slid the body to the deepest recess of the dugout. The Colonel flopped his load in the entrance, and Bell moved everything out of the way.
The Colonel crawled in, and Clicker spent a few moments securing the entrance. Satisfied, he turned to his new team member and spoke through the dark.
I'll find a flashlight, Colonel. I left mine, and I expect most of the team lights are here as well. When we came for you and the pilot, we hauled-out carrying only what we needed. We didn't figure on coming back, and right now, I'm real glad we left a lot behind."
The Colonel remained silent until Bell's light went on.
"Damn, Clicker, this place is a palace. You people must have been living here for a month or more."
Bell had to chuckle. "Looks better to me now than it did a few hours ago."
He turned directly to the Colonel. "Now tell me, Colonel, how do you know me? You know my rank and my nickname and apparently understand what I do."
Bell looked closer. "I don't know any Air Force people, at least that I can recall, but you act as if we might even have served together."
The Colonel chuckled. "It's my new mustache, Bell, and my hair has grown out. If it wasn't for this war I'd be retired and busy planting posies. The last time you saw me I was standing tall and in charge. Hell, Clicker, I'm not Air Force, I'm Army, and I was just being transported when the plane got in trouble."
Bell looked again, but the colonel interrupted his thoughts. "You don't think some Air Corps pogy could have stood the pace you were setting, did you? Damn, Staff Sergeant, you were really hauling ass getting here." He shook his head. "The fact is, if you'd gone another hundred yards I'd have fallen down. Good thing that dead guy took a shot at us."
Then Bell had him. "You're the colonel that was observing last summer back at Lejeune when they were testing a thermal detector, right?"
"You got it, Sniper One. I probably look a lot different in this flight suit." The officer looked around. "I hope to Hades you've got something else I can wear. This thing isn't made for ground pounding."
"I'll need your name again, Colonel. It's gotten away from me."
"Greg Maynard, Staff Sergeant."
"Thank you, Colonel Maynard. It's good to see you again."
"Good to see me? My God, Clicker, running onto you was like marching into heaven. I figured we had about a half hour before the Iraqis sucked us up, and to tell it straight, I couldn't let that happen. I know too much, and I'm too old to stand up to a lot of Iraqi encouraging. Nope, you were as welcome to me as the second coming will be."
"You should have stayed on the chopper, Colonel."
"I know that, and I'm telling you again that someone pried my grip loose and shoved me the hell off. Believe me when I tell you this, Bell. I'm not foolish enough to risk getting captured by the Iraqis."
Maynard's head shook. "We'll talk more about what we will do if that comes close to happening, but not right now."
Clicker was removing his upper clothing. "Maybe you can take a close look at how I've been hit, Colonel. The damn thing stings like fire."
"You've been hit? Damnation why didn't you say so? When? During the first shooting, or when you went after that dead guy?" Maynard took the flashlight and examined Bell's wound.
"Cripes, the bullet went clean through. Just above the scapula and collarbone, it looks like. Isn't bleeding, but it might have taken some shirt inside. It will have to be cleaned out right away.
"How soon do you figure they can come for us, Clicker? That wound won't cripple you, but it will need a doctor."
Clicker Bell sighed deeply. "They won't be coming for us, Colonel. The bullets that should have killed me dead blew the radio apart and knocked me flat. We can't contact anyone, and our people will believe we are either dead or captured.
"For now, we live on what we have here, but we won't be resupplied. If there is doctoring to do, you'll have to do it because I can't reach the wound."
Colonel Greg Maynard swore softly.
Clicker said, "Don't sweat it. We've got a lot of everything, and once this storm blows through we can take stock and figure our way out of here.
"Hell, Colonel, it can't be more than a couple of hundred miles to either Saudi or Jordan. A Marine can hike that far without bothering to take a break."
Bell hoped his voice sounded strong and certain, but if he wasn't paying attention his fingers trembled, and the pain in his shoulder was sharpening and draining the strength right
out of him.
Right now, with a hornet's nest of Iraqis stirring around, Clicker feared their chances were not all that outstanding.
Chapter 4
Colonel Greg Maynard rediscovered the difference between a commissioned officer and an NCO. An officer orders it done. The noncom gets it done.
Despite the aggravation of his bullet-punctured shoulder, Staff Sergeant Bell performed most of the necessary tasks.
Because the dead Iraqi's bowel had voided, Clicker used an entrenching tool to topple the rear of the dugout on top of the body, which mostly disguised the stench.
The Colonel was reduced to holding a flashlight while Bell located clothing for his new team member from left-behind possessions. And the Staff Sergeant insisted that the Barrett and the M40A1 sniper rifle be cleaned before his wound was treated. Predictably, Bell cleaned the American weapons. Maynard wiped down the Kalashnikov
Maynard was appointed surgeon because Clicker Bell could not effectively reach his wound, and they reversed roles with the NCO directing how it was to be done.
Clicker rounded up the few instruments available. He held up a small can.
"This is some sort of disinfectant that we were told to shake onto any skin break or irritation that showed up. The stuff is probably an antibiotic.
"For sterilizing our instruments we've got this." Bell displayed a one ounce bottle of vodka with a screw-on cap, the kind used aboard aircraft. "One of my team brought it along for a Last Man celebration."
"Last Man?" Maynard did not recognize the term.
"It's a First World War tradition, Colonel. The squad or maybe a bunch of civilians going off to war formed their Last Man's club. The idea was that they would gather when they could, but the last man alive was to have a certain bottle of booze that he would drink to celebrate the memory of his buddies that were absent."
"Good plan." Maynard examined the bottle: Jacquin's Vodka. Never heard of it, but it's one hundred proof. That ought to kill the bugs."
Bell continued. "The way this should be done is to clean the wound channel with both the vodka and the disinfectant. You may have to open the entrance hole a little, but otherwise, about all there will be to it is to shove this end-section of ramrod through with a vodka soaked rifle patch on the end and the rod shaft coated with disinfectant"
"Good God! That'll hurt worse than a hot poker, Clicker."
Bell was undeterred. "Once the rod is through, you'll have to remove the patch, shake new disinfectant all along the rod, and the exit wound and slide the rod back out the way it came in."
"And what will you be doing while I am performing this high-tech surgery, Staff Sergeant?"
"Probably cussing you and your family back to the trees we all came out of, Colonel."
Bell elaborated. "Look, Colonel, I'm not looking forward to this, but you were right in pointing out that the wound has to be cleaned right away, and it's clear that we are unlikely to have any outside help for far too long. We do it, or it doesn't get done."
There was no vodka to waste, so their instruments, which consisted of Bell's jackknife and the 5.56 caliber rod section, were sterilized by repeated pourings of the Jacquin's 100 proof.
Maynard used water to clean around both entrance and exit holes so that he could see better. Bell tried to hold the flashlight for him, but his hand kept wobbling, and they decided to wedge it in place using the Barrett and duct tape.
"OK, Clicker, I guess I'm ready. You want something to bite down on? They do that in movies."
"Don't think so, Colonel. It might slow down my swearing. My suggestion is that once you get to cutting and poking, go at it fast no matter what I'm doing."
Maynard dipped his patch in the vodka, but was alarmed by the amount of precious alcohol the patch soaked up.
I'm putting the patch on with the fluff inside, Sergeant Bell. Less likely to leave residue in the wound channel."
"Fine. Just get at it."
"Testy, testy, Staff Sergeant." Maynard concentrated on his task. He pinched the entrance and declared, "I think I can get the rod in without cutting, Clicker, so here goes."
Bell braced himself, but the entrance of the rod into his flesh was worse than he could have imagined. He flinched violently, but fought himself still, groaning aloud through clenched teeth.
"It'll go." The Colonel sounded pleased. I'll sprinkle disinfectant on it right now so it will get carried in with the rod—we hope."
The fire in his shoulder was too hot for Bell to answer.
Maynard shook disinfectant, got a grip on Bell's shoulder, and shoved on the rod. He heard Bell gagging and the Staff Sergeant's body heaved and quivered, but the ramrod went through easily, Maynard felt confidence leap.
Clicker Bell was pumping air as if he had sprinted miles, and Maynard was annoyed that is own hands shook as he fumbled the patch from the ramrod.
He used a fresh patch to wipe the rod as clean as he could, knowing every instant hurt his patient terribly, but making himself take the time to do it right.
The Colonel shook more disinfectant on the ramrod end before gripping the rod for removal.
"OK, Clicker, one more time. Here it comes." He pulled firmly, and the patchless rod barely resisted.
"It's done. You all right, Bell?"
Clicker's voice was a hollow croak, pain filled and weak. "Piece of cake, Colonel." His body twitched uncontrollably, and Maynard feared he was not far from shock.
Bell's standard issue first aid kit gave them bandage, and the Colonel required Bell to hold one piece in place on the front of his shoulder while he did the back. A foot long strip of duct tape was laid over the cotton gauze and sealed the bandage in place.
Greg Maynard leaned against a packed-sand wall to recover. He saw Clicker Bell trying to do the same, but registered the Marine's uncontrolled tremors.
Maynard snatched a blanket and wrapped it around his patient's upper body. "Lay back, Clicker. Make your body relax. Begin with your chest, feel it ease. Then concentrate on your arms letting them go limp. Feel each finger relax itself. Shift to your face muscles. I'll see the tension go out around your mouth and eyes, if you are succeeding."
The relaxation method was as old as time, and Maynard had used it when he had been an athlete. Meditators did the same things and thought they had discovered something special. Maybe they had. The Colonel could see Bell's body turning limp, and the tension was slacking all over his face.
Keeping a patient warm was the best move possible, and Maynard got another blanket and tucked it around the Marine's legs. Outside, night would have fallen and the air would be turning bitterly cold. Beneath the earth, conditions were far more stable, but a chill could be felt. The Colonel took the flashlight and poked through the left-behind equipment for more blankets.
Bell's voice was weary, "I'm feeling better already, Colonel. Damn, that was meaner than I had figured it would be."
"Seemed easy to me, Clicker, and hell, they do patching like that all the time in movies." The Colonel fell easily into the enlisted man's style of bantering about serious things.
"Yeah, Colonel. I'll never doubt Rambo again." Clicker paused. "What time've you got, Colonel? I'm too comfortable to move."
Maynard studied his watch. "Damn, it's already 2000 hours. Time flies when you're having fun."
Bell stayed serious. "What we should do is eat and drink. Then we'll sleep or at least rest. Could be that the storm will blow itself out by morning, and we may have to do something besides lay in here."
Maynard began looking through the ration boxes, and Bell continued. "We've got two flashlights, but as soon as we're done feeding our faces we'll shut everything down and live in the dark. We may be able to crack an entrance during daylight so that we can see in here, but we may need night light later on, so we won't waste our batteries."
Before they slept, Maynard asked, "You got any ideas on how to get us out of here, Clicker? That two hundred miles across the desert doesn't sound all that appealing."
Bell said, "It isn't really that far, Colonel, but yes, I have got about half a plan." He paused as if considering. "It would sure as hell help if we knew if the war had started and whether or not the fighting was heading this way. It wouldn't be cool to run onto a pissed-off Iraqi armored column somewhere out on the barrens."
"We'd only be moving at night, wouldn't we Clicker?"
"Only at night. Can you imagine how a low flying Iraqi chopper or a fighter would enjoy catching us out in daylight?"
"Maybe we could disguise ourselves as nomads."
"Nomads don't go walking around all alone out in the middle of this wasteland either, Colonel. People everywhere do sensible travel, and they don't cut across deserts with nothing but what they can carry."
Clicker modified his thought. "Well, maybe some of those real primitives in the Kalahari or one of those other deserts might, but Iraq is older than God, and we couldn't fool anyone into believing we were just two locals out for a hike."
+++
Bell's night had been rough with pain and continual twisting in search of impossible-to-find comfort, but morning came with a hint of easing, and Clicker believed the worst of his agonies might be passing.
The Colonel slept like a log, curled in a single blanket with his mouth hanging open. Although unwounded, Bell recognized that the Army officer, too, had experienced a rough day. It appeared that he slept soundly, however, and Bell was glad for that.
Clicker gathered his courage for a lance of pain, and got onto his knees—nothing, as long as he did not disturb his wounded shoulder.
He took the ramrod section and poked it through a joint in the cardboard packaging that covered the hide's observation hole. Sunlight stabbed his eyes. Clear, bright, early morning sun that flooded the hide as if it were a searchlight
The Colonel stirred, and his eyes opened. His voice was dry from disuse but enthusiastic. ''Great! The storm is gone."
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