by David Poyer
“Ma’am?”
“Wait—don’t go out there. He just wants to get away. You—”
But he had stopped listening, was already outside, with one leg over the railing. He saw how the other had gotten down. An air-conditioning duct led down to the roof, a steep incline, but better than a drop. He swung his other leg over, holding his rifle with one hand, the other gripping the balcony.
“Don’t,” he heard the woman say again, behind him.
“Stay in the room,” he shouted.
“No!” It was a scream, full-throated, pure terror; and thinking it was a warning, he looked up from the duct, his eyes blasted open with sudden fear.
The bullet came soundless. No muzzle flash, no bang; he heard nothing; felt only the incredible force of the blow. He heard his rifle hit the roof-gravel below. He looked down at it, tiny and far. A lost weapon. A marine could not lose his rifle.…
Then he was falling, the surprise still too great for him to do anything but watch. He hit the roof with a scream still in his ears, his own or the woman’s, prolonged, endless, he couldn’t tell. Hit hard, knocking the breath out of him, almost knocking him out.
But he didn’t go. He blinked to clear his head, staring at the black gravel of the rooftop. It was sun-hot against his cheek and he could smell it: like the hot tarpaper of a roof. Then he tasted salt. He licked his lips for a moment, wondering, and then shoved himself up with his arms. Something moved in his chest, something heavy, but it did not hurt. He rolled over, groping with blind urgency for his rifle.
The woman was shouting something; it was in English, but he couldn’t make it out. And the man, he saw him, he was still looking at him. He was raising his weapon again. He was smiling. Then he lifted his eyes. His expression changed.
“Givens!”
A deep voice, a roar of rage and pain.
“Oreo—goddamn it—where the fuck—”
Cutford’s sweating face came over the edge of the terrace and looked down at him. It became suddenly still; then foreshortened to Givens’ darkening sight as it looked up, to a young man in a loose shirt running across the rooftop, headed for the next building. His shoes kicked up spurts of black grit that rattled as they fell.
Cutford’s face disappeared, swung back. The slender barrel, the cylindrical flash-suppressor of the corporal’s M-16 steadied itself on the bar of the balcony. Steadied, paused, and then jerked twice, three times.
The running man threw his arms up, his legs straightening suddenly from the run, as if he was leaping. Givens saw his face, angry, despairing, triumphant, for only a moment before he disappeared over the edge of the roof.
* * *
Not a hundred feet away, but below them, Lenson crouched against an outside wall, unable to move.
The helicopter’s pilot had put him down in a ravine about a quarter-mile from the compound. He had ended up, after a fear-filled sprint off the desert, in an alley on the eastern, blind side of the complex. At its end there was only one small door, and when he tried it, it had been locked.
Now he was terrified. Pure unreasoning anger had driven him inland, away from Sundstrom. But the noise and smoke and screams had leached that pure emotion away, leaving him with a shocked, incredulous awareness of where he was. At any moment a rifleman could lean from the balconies above and destroy him as casually as a man sweeps away a spider. Susan or not, Nan or not, if they were really here, he had made the wrong decision in coming. The marines were armed and trained for this. While he was a naval officer, untrained in land combat, still in his shipboard khakis and without even a helmet. I should have stayed aboard Guam, he thought. Done what I knew how to do.
He stared at his hand. The yard-long chunk of reinforcing iron he’d picked up in the alley seemed ridiculously inadequate in the storm of automatic-weapons fire that roared from the far side of the hotel.
In that moment Lenson thought despairingly that he had made all the wrong decisions. He was not a military man. He felt none of the lust of battle he had read about.
He huddled trembling against the hot concrete as close as he had held anyone. But it was not fear that held him there. It was the scream he had just heard. A woman’s scream, terrifyingly familiar, from above him. He stared upward helplessly. There was a fire ladder there. A metal lattice, but with the familiar counterbalanced last stage, so that he couldn’t reach it from ground level.
At that moment there came to him the stink of burning fuel. And at that nightmare-familiar smell, something in his mind began to bend.
He stared at the empty end of the alleyway. A form was emerging, slowly, from the swirling smoke. He lifted the steel bar in reflex, like a man armed in a dream, even as he realized it was a figment, a hallucination, the creation of a mind five days without sleep. He fought to disbelieve. But above him the crackle of firing built to the roar of a monstrous pyre. Behind it he heard now faint but clear the shriek of tearing steel, agonizing as your own body being torn apart; the screams of abandoned, drowning, burning men.
“Oh, God, no,” he said aloud.
From the whirling smoke the bow of a carrier took shape. Huge, gray, head-on. And from the advancing bow, remorseless, inexorable, rolled out once more a solid, advancing sheet of living flame, rolling toward him—
He was flattened there, staring at the curling smoke, when a rattle came from above him. He started, tore his eyes away, and looked up again.
Someone was descending the fire ladder, coming down it from the roof.
Lenson moved quickly, sliding sideways along concrete till he was directly beneath the platform. A moment later the rattle paused, and a face appeared, looking down. It looked out to right and left, but missed him; Lenson was too close to the wall. Dan waited, resting his face against the wall and breathing deeply, staring at the concrete. After a moment he felt something warm on his shoulder. He turned his head slowly. As he did another patch of it appeared with a little plop. It was falling from above him. It was blood.
* * *
Harisah paused, crouching, and looked again upward. He was pleased that there was so little pain yet. Only a crushing numbness where the black marine’s bullet had hit. A nice shot, that, when he’d been running … it could as easily have found his heart. He thought coldly that he would lose the arm. But that did not concern him now.
Listening to the firing from the floor above him, the cries and screams, he judged that his men were taking the worst of it. He’d planned to stay a few minutes with the woman, then lock her door and supervise them in dealing with the remaining hostages. But the marines had come through the corridors too fast; he’d had to leave. Fortunately he had done a thorough reconnoiter when they moved into the hotel. He’d known the fire escape was here, though it couldn’t be seen from above. He’d taken a round enroute, but, he thought, thanks be to God! The Majd is still alive.
Now, out here, he had two choices. He could descend to the alley below, turn left, and thread his way out toward the desert. The smoke would aid him now. If he made it to the broken system of ravines to the east, he’d have a good chance of reaching the Syrian lines. They were not friends, not after this betrayal; letting the Americans cross their borders unopposed; but not quite enemies either, for they were, after all, Arabs. From them he could expect repatriation, return to his people to the south. He might even fight again, if the UN-funded doctors were skillful.
Or he could turn the other way. Right, and emerge at the front of the hotel, taking the marines in the plaza on the flank. They’d be exposed to his fire for several seconds, till they reoriented to the new threat. He squatted motionless, weighing how many he could kill. It might be a fair trade for the life of the Majd; a fair ending to his long struggle against Zionism, oppression, and imperialism.
His mouth twisted. He glanced upward once more, toward the slackening sound of gunfire. It was almost over. Then downward, toward the alleyway. Still empty. Still the choice to make: escape, or attack.
Well, either way he would ne
ed every drop of blood. The pain had begun too, creeping at last through shattered nerves into his brain. But he could ignore that for a few minutes more. Crouching there, he tore off the green armband. He rolled it into a rat’s-tail and knotted it tightly round his ruined arm.
Harisah checked his weapon then. Awkwardly, one-handed, he pulled the clip free to check and was immediately glad; it held only one cartridge. He tossed it over the edge of the platform and thrust in his last full magazine.
Ready for his final battle, the Majd straightened from his crouch and moved downward on the steel stair.
* * *
Something clattered on the pavement. Glancing at it, Lenson saw that it was the magazine to a weapon. He took a long slow breath and raised the bar, steadying it with both hands.
The counterweight lofted slowly and the ladder came down. Steel kissed asphalt with the toll of a gently struck bell. Dan watched numbly from beneath it as the man descended. His back was to him, but the butt of a rifle was easy to make out. He held it awkwardly, pointing down; Dan saw fresh blood on his arm. When he stepped off the last tread he paused again, his back still to Dan. He half-turned left. Then he paused. At last, as if he had decided something, he pivoted suddenly full toward the front of the building. It was then he caught sight of Lenson.
They faced each other, frozen for a moment. They were no more than six feet apart. Facing him Dan saw a man as tall as he, young, dark-faced, with blood soaking the sleeve of his shirt. Though his mouth looked slack, dazed, his eyes were sharp. They grew wide as they took in Lenson, then narrowed in sudden calculation.
“American!” he said. “You’re my hostage. Move to the—”
“Bullshit. You’re mine,” said Lenson, and brought the bar around into him with all his strength and will.
The rifle went off at the same time, aimed low, but coming up. The bullets blew concrete dust from the wall behind him, stinging his neck. Then steel met steel with a shock that numbed Lenson’s hands. Something snapped, and metal clattered at their feet. Another round, wild, hit the wall, then the rifle clicked. Dan cocked the bar again; the man looked down, his expression surprised. There was no magazine to his weapon.
“Drop it,” said Lenson, holding the bar like a baseball bat. “Drop it!”
The man nodded. Just for a moment, he looked tired. He held the rifle out, muzzle down. Dan reached out.
The next moment it came flying at his face. His arm came up instinctively to guard. Before he could bring it down again to swing, the other man had slammed forward into him. He heard the iron clang on the pavement. But there was no time to look down. He blocked the groin-kick with his leg, but missed the chop to his throat. Lightning flashed in his head. He struck upward with his elbow, catching what felt like a jaw, and then punched out into the body. He battered his way into him, again and again, till the weakness was too much. At the last blow the man folded and, holding a bloody hand to his arm, sagged slowly and with a look of disbelief to the pavement of the alley.
Lenson reeled back, then fell to his knees, grabbing at his own throat like a madman. Above his head the storm of gunfire abated, trailing off into scattered shots and then a sudden silence. But he was not listening. The world had gone a bloody dark, and his heart had paused terrifyingly in his chest. He was struggling to draw air through a crushed windpipe. At last he got a breath. Then another. When he was able to see, he crawled toward the fallen man.
He was bent over him, slamming the rifle butt into his face again and again, when the marines came round the corner of the building.
* * *
Will Givens came back.
He thought, surprised, that the action must be over. He could hear no more firing. No more shouting, the deep short brutal “Oo-rah” of marines in assault. No more screams. Only the low sobbing of a woman, and hoarse breathing from above as Cutford found the duct. Combat boots scraped hollow metal, and then the familiar, hated face was close above.
“Oreo. How is it, blood? You fall?”
“No. Hit.”
“Hit bad? Feel numb, like?”
“Yeah…” The sky beyond Cutford reddened to scarlet and a wave of dizziness supplanted the emptiness in his chest. He wanted to cough but was afraid to. It might jar loose the heavy, numb thing on his breast.
“We’ll get you medevacked,” the voice came faintly through the dark. Behind it, now, he could feel the thing, hear it. Thud. Thud. Maybe it was his heart, but it felt different. Slow. Thick. The thing in his chest was heavy on it, drifting over it like fog over the deep valleys of the Smokies in the cool nights of October.
“Hear, man? You got to hold. Hold that old fuckah Death back. Don’t give in, Oreo. Can you hear me, brother?”
He could hear, but he did not respond. It was Cutford. He hated him. Cutford had broken his guitar.
And he was thinking. About a lot of things. About the woman. She had tried to stop him, tried to save his life. Or … had she screamed for him, or for the other? Her eyes … so dark, so full of secrets.
Eyes; the eyes of the child, the woman, the eyes of the terrorist, of the corporal. Secrets, all of them, deep as the sea as you hung over the rail of a ship, staring into depths you would never know, that no one knew.
His book said it all turned out to be math. Equations. The world was all in books, and all you had to do was learn it. And if you studied, learned hard enough, you would not be a nigger. You would not be a small-town laborer in North Carolina. You would be a college man, and never be poor again.
He was remembering the feel of a guitar, the smoothness of the wood and bite of strings, the way that first chord sobbed out in “Amazing Grace.”
And then, as if a curtain had been ripped apart, he knew what he was meant for.
He was not an engineer. There were enough engineers. He was not a guitar player. He had not been meant for that.
He had the Call.
“Oreo. You got to hold on, man. We gettin’ a corpsman. Open your eyes. That’s a fucken order!”
That Cutford. He had to grin, at least inside. Won’t he never let up on me?
No. He wouldn’t. He was like Someone Else. He called and called, patiently, never taking no. And when you were ready, you had to understand.
Finally, finally, Will Givens understood why he had been set apart. Made different from the rest.
For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth Eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place.…
“Givens! You son of a bitch, answer me!”
Cutford. Another of the lost, those whose lives were endless, goalless, whom he had been sent to help. Had he helped them? Had he brought them to certainty? He had not. He had not even tried. And now his journey was at an end.
Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord … and be not conformed to this world; but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind. For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
“Will!”
I guess I better answer him. He sound like he almost care.
“Okay, brother,” he whispered.
Or only thought he did. For within him, somewhere, the dark hand of Jesus had already joined his. Despite himself, despite his failure and sin, he was loved and accepted and taken. And with joy in it, joy and surcease from pain and fear, he yielded to a delight that passed anything, anything, he had ever known.
VII
THE AFTERIMAGE
34
U.S.S. Ault
So the old polish-irish luck still held, Wronowicz thought, relaxing back into the bunk after the doctor left.
Still held—kind of. He knew he was in bad shape. His head swam with the dry-mouthed euphoria of morphine and he could think only in snatches. His legs were heavy as ballast pigs and there was no way to move them. He was busted up bad. But alive, that was the kicker! And that was goddamned lucky when a two-ton gear casing had ironed you out twice
before the black gang got it wedged down with shoring and lines.
Kelly Wronowicz looked up at the distant blue overhead of after officers country, and wondered where he would be now if he had died. Or if you died would you ever know it, would the only way you knew it be that you didn’t?
With the thin silver song of the drug in his ears even that did not seem too awful.
When he woke again the song had gone away and he came up hurting. He stood it for a while, then whistled. A minute later the long, professionally blank face of the Ault’s corpsman, a first-class whose name he ought to but could not recall, leaned in. He watched Wronowicz for a minute or two, then his glance went to the dripping bottle that tilted with the gentle sway of the ship. Gentle? Storm must have eased off, Wronowicz thought. Or else I been tits down longer than I thought.
“How you feeling, Chief?” said the medic at last, edging the rest of his body into the room.
“Not too good.” He tried to push himself up and caught his breath. “Whoo … that smarts.”
“Lay down, damn it. You remember what the doc said?”
“Doc? I remember somebody … don’t remember what he said. Wait a minute. We don’t have a doc aboard.”
“Shock, probably.” The corpsman sat on the bunk and reached for a pulse. “He came over in a gig from the Guam. You got three broken ribs, hip, leg in two places. Internal bruising, some hemorrhage. You got blood in your urine, too.”
“I guess that’s why I feel so rotten,” Wronowicz whispered. It was getting worse; he blinked sweat out of his eyes. He tried to concentrate. Broken ribs. Hip. Leg …
“Yeah,” said the corpsman, wiping down his forehead, “time to put the quietus on that old pain again.”
“A shot?” said Wronowicz. “Forget it. I can take this.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I don’t want no more of that dope.”
“Well, how about some aspirin, then? At least?”
“That would be okay.”