The Med

by David Poyer

  When he had them on his tongue he could taste that they weren’t aspirin. He’d been tricked. But he swallowed them anyway. He twitched his fingers and then dug them into the sheet. “Hey. How long I been here?”

  “It’s 1700. Five in the evening.”

  “Oh. Landing…?”

  “It went all right. We even got to fire the guns. If you’re wondering why you haven’t been medevacked, Foster was on the horn as soon as we pulled that thing off you, but they were warming up to launch the air assault and there just weren’t any to spare. He was cursing a blue streak but the commodore wouldn’t give him one, said to stabilize you and he’d divert one when things calmed down.”

  “So when’s that?”

  “When’s what?”

  “When am I going?” Wronowicz muttered. It was getting bad, worse than he thought it could be. Whatever the white pills were they weren’t working. “This goddamn tub … hurts every time we roll.”

  “Should be pretty soon. Kind of sorry you woke up, though, ’cause getting you up those ladders and through the hatchways is going to hurt like hell.”

  Wronowicz closed his eyes.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give you a reduced dose. How’s that? You’ll still be awake, but it won’t be as bad.”

  “Oh … all right,” said Wronowicz, reluctantly and gratefully.

  * * *

  Strapped like a mummy into a Stokes stretcher, he sweated his way up the ladders, fearing with every jolt that they would drop him. But they didn’t, and once they hit the 01 level, four men could carry him horizontal and that was better. On the Ault’s little helo deck Polock and Steurnagel and Blaney stood around him, watching the dusking sky. It was warm and windy, the flags on the signal bridge snapping above them, the turbulence aft of the funnels snatching down stray streamers of stack gas. The throb and hum of the blowers was music. He moved his fingers and the first-class bent down.

  “Stewie. How’s the engines doing?”

  “Passable, Chief. We was busy as a dog with two dicks for a while, but we dropped the cover back on, bypassed the aux steam line, soft-patched the condensate line and a couple of others, and welded up the bulkhead. She’s running, for a while, anyway.”

  “Did Foster get his thirty knots when he wanted them?”

  “I had them flat out flank for three hours,” said the first-class. “I didn’t hear him complain.”

  “You done good, Stewie.”

  “You done good, Chief. That fuckin’ casing would have wiped out the whole engineroom.”

  They looked at each other in the warm wind, and the gas from the stacks made Wronowicz’s eyes tear.

  “Bird’s incoming,” said Lieutenant Jay, coming up to the stretcher and rubbing his hands. “You’ll be on your way in five minutes, Chief, a nice clean hospital and sweet little nurses. By the way, before you shove off—skipper can’t leave the bridge, but he said to tell you the yeoman’s looking up the requirements for a Navy Cross.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Wronowicz. He was feeling drowsy. That tricky bastard had fooled him again, given him a full shot.… “Sir?”

  “Yeah.” Jay bent to hear him over the roar of the approaching chopper.

  “Steurnagel … he done a damn nice job of work getting that plant back together.”

  “I hear you,” said the lieutenant.

  “ON THE DASH DECK. EVERYONE BACK OF THE LINE EXCEPT FOR PATIENT AND CORPSMAN.”

  The amplified voice was familiar. He rolled his head to see Ensign Callin’s hand lift inside the control booth. Strange. He hadn’t known Callin was helo-deck qualified.

  “Well, so long, Chief.”

  “We’ll see you back aboard in a couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, g’bye.”

  They retreated, waving. The swollen hugeness of the chopper settled warily toward the stern of the destroyer. It hovered over the after gun mount, gauging the motion of the ship, and then lowered the last few feet. It touched, bounced, and then was down, leaving not an inch of room to spare. The engines drummed at his ears. He was lifted and slid in with a click. A crewman leaned over to strap him in, and then he was heavy with the upward rush of the floor.

  * * *

  “Want to see out?”

  He could barely understand the gargoyle in helmet and throat mike; there was no hope of his shouting back loud enough to be heard. So he only nodded. The crewman loosened a strap and edged him over to the window, and he looked down from three thousand feet on the entire operation.

  Land, and the sea. The beach was gold, fringed with white lace of surf, an arch of gold from horizon to horizon. Far to their left were a few fishing smacks, the same ones you saw all over the Med, and the haze of a small city. Below, though, it was almost vacant; just gold, and that fine, fine lace.

  Then he saw the boats.

  Or amtracs, either one. He looked for but couldn’t see the ships of the task force; they were on the seaward side of the chopper. All he could see were the boats, coming out. Fine lines of white, the wakes, each one arrow-tipped by dark gray or green. They crept with painful slowness over the intense purple of the sea, leaving behind the golden arc of land. They were no longer in formation; they were just sea-trucks now. The backload must be starting.

  Jarheads down there. As the helo crossed the surf line he could look down on them, the spiderweb crisscross of wheeltracks on the sand, moving jeeps and a bulldozer with its blade lifted, the tiny dots of men. Another dozer was working at the dunes, scraping out a ramp. Beyond that amtracs were coming down the road from the hills, their treads throwing a plume of dust that the wind spread silently (from this height) along the beach.

  The helo banked, for some reason; Wronowicz heard the sound of rotors change; the drug told him not to worry.

  He looked out, blinking as the sun wheeled through his line of vision, and then saw the ships.

  They lay dark against the blue sea, gray against blue. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Nearest him the foam-waked silhouette of a frigate rolled, her missile launcher pointed inland; beyond her was the tubby hull of an attack transport, hove to or at anchor; he couldn’t see a wake. Beyond her were more amphibs, all hove to or moving slowly. His eye picked out an LST; was that Newport, or Barnstable County? Boats clustered around her stern.

  Then he saw her: low, fine-hulled, gray, riding close in, her six guns pointed shoreward. The sea glittered around her, the declining sun showering her with powdered gold. It’s her, the goddamn Ault, he thought. So suddenly was he parted from her. He knew her better than any other thing on earth, more intimately than his own body. She was his home. He wondered if he would ever be back. Stove up as he was, it would be months before he could climb a ladder, scramble into the bilges, take a strain on a line. Maybe longer. At his age …

  He pushed the thought away, but it came back. Maybe they won’t find me fit for sea, he thought. This time fear cut through morphine. Maybe they won’t give me another ship at all. Shoreside duty …

  He could not imagine it. The idea of Kelly Wronowicz beached in West Ocean View was so incredible that he was able to stop thinking about it. His eyes moved on to a grander silhouette, high and square, the gnat-flickering of helicopters between it and the beach, and recognized Guam. And beyond her, tiny against the flaming western horizon … a cruiser, one of the nukes. That meant there was a carrier out there somewhere, far out to sea from the toehold, but ready with all her power to strike wherever it was needed.

  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?”