Battleground sts-6

by Keith Douglass

  He had a six-foot-long spear.

  Magic moved silently through the trees and brush. At one point he saw the general through the brush. He was resting below the rock. Twice he lifted up to look toward where Magic had been on the trail.

  Magic stepped gingerly along another twenty feet to the rear, then worked out to the fringe of the brush.

  General Umar Maleceia sat on the rock thirty feet away and slightly ahead. The general was too far away for a charge even with Brown's spear. How?

  Magic found a fist-sized rock, lifted up, and threw it as far as he could beyond where the general hid. The rock hit some brush and made a racket. The general jolted upright and fired three rounds at the noise. Then he fired again, and the round magazine on the AK-47 ran dry. He threw it away. He drew a handgun and looked around.

  One more fist-sized rock slanted out of Magic's hand, and crashed in much the same area. General Maleceia fired five rounds into the brush, and then the revolver ran out of bullets.

  Magic moved out of the brush into the open to the edge of a stream bed. He walked silently toward the coup leader. When he was ten feet away he called.

  "The party's over, Colonel."

  Maleceia turned, surprised. He saw the spear and laughed.

  "You, a black man, fighting another black man? Don't be stupid. I can make you rich. We'll hike out of here. I have many friends in this area. We'll find transport, get into Tanzania where I can tap a bank account, and the two of us will live like kings. All the food, drink, and women we want."

  "Not a chance," Magic Brown said.

  The general snarled, and drew a knife. It was an inch shorter than the K-Bar, but just as deadly.

  "Come on, nigger," Maleceia said. "Know you hate that name, but you're just a nigger used to taking commands from the white trash over you. I don't see you with any officer's bars on your shoulder. Just a poor little nigger boy working for the massa."

  Magic walked forward, the spear in front of him. "You just killed one of my best friends, you bastard. You want to die slow or fast?"

  Maleceia held the knife in front the way a fencer would, with the point aimed forward so he could stab or slice either up, down, or sideways.

  "Come and get me."

  Magic moved closer. He took a swing with the spear at the big man, who stepped back. Magic feinted one way, then drove ahead the other way, and the sharp K-Bar cut a groove a half inch deep along the general's left arm.

  "Bastard! I told you I'd make you rich. What else do you want?"

  "Everything you own, all the account numbers in Tanzania."

  "Said I'd make you rich, not that I'm stupid. I give you the numbers and you kill me anyway."

  "Probably. You're not in a good bargaining position." Magic darted forward again, stabbed, missed, sliced, and drew blood from a cut across the big man's chest. Blood soaked his shirt. He glared at Magic, turned the knife, and held it by the blade.

  Magic drove in before the general could throw it. The K-Bar on the end of the lance jabbed again, dug into the general's right forearm, and came out leaving a smear of blood.

  General Maleceia screamed in fury. He charged.

  The move caught Magic by surprise. He backed up a step, sliced at the man's torso, missed, then spun the limb so he held it like a staff, and slammed the large end of it against Maleceia's left arm. He could hear a bone snap. The general growled in pain and came forward again, his right arm back to throw the knife.

  Magic dove to the ground with the staff crossways in front of him, came to his feet, and swung the staff like a baseball bat. The wood on the knife end hit the general in the right leg, smashing the leg sideways, and the general went down.

  Magic saw the hand go back. He darted to the side, then back, and the thrown knife sailed past him, missing by two feet.

  The big black SEAL moved in slowly on the fallen general. The man held up both hands, but must have known they would be little defense.

  Suddenly Magic was tired. Tired of the chase, tired of the man's insults, tired of seeing his buddies killed. He leaped forward, wielding the spear like a long knife. He slashed it at the general's chest. The Kenyan ducked, and the blade bit into his neck, severing one carotid artery and his jugular vein.

  Magic continued the swing of the blade, reversed it, brought it back, and with both hands on the shank, drove the big blade deeply into Maleceia's heart.

  Magic dropped to one knee. He panted. Blood spurted from the general's neck wound for a few seconds, then stopped. The general's uniform was starkly red. His eyes stared unseeing at the small clouds drifting past the sun.

  The black SEAL touched his mike. "L-T, clear down here. The general is dead."

  Murdock slumped down beside Red Nicholson's body. "Good, Magic. Reverse up the trail to where we left Red." The dead man would be going out with the rest of the SEALS. Almost never did a dead SEAL get left on the battlefield. The general was down, their main mission over. He wondered how DeWitt had fared.

  "DeWitt, what's happening over there?"

  "Yeah, Murdock. We nailed one of them. The other one is so damn sneaky we can't find him. Just melted into the brush somewhere."

  "Don't sweat it, get back to the trail. We need to find a space open enough for our chopper. Get back to the main trail, and we'll hook up. Watch for an LZ."

  Holt came out of the brush a few minutes later. He carried his sub-gun in his right hand. His left arm hung at his side and pain etched his face.

  "Damn sorry, L-T. Tripped over something running flat out."

  "Happens. Can you work your magic box?"

  "Oh, yeah. Heard the general is wasted. Good. Magic did it, knew he could."

  "Kick up the antenna and let's try the tac band for the carrier. She still the Rover?"

  "That's a Roger."

  Holt opened the radio cover, and set up the antenna to align it with the Milstar satellite orbiting at 22,300 miles above the earth in a synchronous journey around the equator. It might not matter, but he aligned it anyway.

  "Rover, this is Murdock, can you copy?"

  There were some pops and whines out of the set; then the voice came over the small speaker.

  "Murdock, this is Rover."

  "We're ready for that pickup. We're ten to twelve miles, maybe more, northwest of Nairobi in some hills. We'll use flares when we hear the bird. Two hours? I have 1715."

  "Yes, two hours. Be dark by then, Murdock. Spot an LZ with small fires if you can. Any enemy action expected?"

  "No, Rover. Mission accomplished on the papa bear. We lost one Kenyan soldier, but he's probably still running. We'll find an LZ."

  Magic came up the trail and dropped beside Nicholson. He shook his head. "Damn, never should have happened. Red stayed on point too fucking long."

  "Wouldn't let anybody else walk it," Holt said.

  "Yeah, we should have out-muscled him," Magic said. "Goddamn it to Hell. Damn lousy fucking way to die."

  They moved up the trail they had used since leaving the rock house. Magic picked up Nicholson in a fireman's carry and marched up the trail without a word.

  By the time they found DeWitt and his men, they were less than a quarter of a mile from the rock house. DeWitt suggested they use the open spot in front of it for the LZ. Murdock agreed.

  They hiked to the rock house and checked. The cleared spot in front was more than big enough for a safe landing.

  DeWitt put two men to gathering up dry grass, twigs, and larger limbs they could use to light for signal fires when they heard the chopper. They laid four fires at the sides of the LZ, and waited for the signal to light them.

  Doc looked at the men who had been injured or shot since he saw them last. He put a wooden splint on Holt's left arm and gave him a pain shot.

  Murdock sent Ching and Bishop down the road to find Ronson. "See how close you can find a good LZ down there," Murdock said. He gave them two flares and one more WP grenade. "We'll get picked up here, then go down for you there. We shouldn't
have any trouble finding the truck where Lincoln and Quinley are. Just be a matter of spotting an LZ down there." The two took off hiking down the road.

  "Who has any ammo left?" Murdock asked the men who had flaked out on the ground. "I've got about half a magazine. Anybody else?"

  Three more men had a few rounds. Murdock set them on the perimeter facing outward. "Let's have a little fucking security here," he said.

  It was dark and 1922 when they heard the big chopper. DeWitt's men lit the four fires, and blew them into flames. Soon they burned brightly. The big bird made one pass, then dropped down and sent a tornado of dust and debris at the men as it settled on the ground. The big chopper blew out two of the fires. The men stomped out the last two, carried Red Nicholson to the bird, and laid him gently on the floor.

  Murdock called on the Motorola, but couldn't raise Magic Brown. They all climbed on board, the bird took off, and traced the road with a searchlight.

  Murdock tried again, and Brown came in scratchy but readable.

  "Yeah, Bird. About a quarter of a mile more. Good LZ on the left. I'll put up a flare." They landed, and brought in Horse and the two others.

  Ten minutes later, they found Lincoln and Quinley by the Kenyan truck, picked them up, and headed home.

  The pilot told Murdock they might not have enough juice to get all the way to the carrier. She was supposed to steam within four miles of the coast to cut down on flight time.

  "We're pushing the limit in this baby even without all the hardware," the pilot told Murdock.

  "If it's only four miles, we can swim that with no sweat," Murdock said.

  "Yeah, maybe you can," the copilot yelped.

  30

  Friday, July 23

  2158 hours

  USS Monroe, CVN 81

  Off Mombasa, Kenya

  The Seahawk settled down on the deck of the nuclear-powered carrier at 2158. Medical corpsmen rushed on board and took off Lincoln on a stretcher. Corpsmen lifted Horse Ronson to another stretcher and carried him out the chopper door. Ed DeWitt went with them to the ship's sick bay, where both would be operated on. The rest of the SEALs got off and waited near the chopper.

  Inside, Murdock sat cross-legged beside Red Nicholson's body. In all his years with the SEALS, he'd lost only two men. Now Red was the third. There must have been something he could have done differently. Something. Red loved being out in front, leading the pack, as he called them. Leading his pack of wolves.

  If it hadn't been Red out there, another man would have sprung the trip wire.

  This was one fucking dangerous game they all played. Somebody was bound to get hurt.

  Murdock shook his head and blinked back tears. "Goodbye, good buddy. It was a great ride."

  Two medics came on board and stood behind him waiting. Murdock stood and let them take the body. He knew the routine. He'd write a letter about how Red had been killed on board a carrier in a freak accident that somehow could not be prevented. He had been a good and loyal warrior in the service of his country, and it was appreciated. He would be awarded the Purple Heart and the Navy Cross. His casket would remain closed during the funeral.

  Murdock led his men into the carrier for the last time on this mission. Doc had medic tags on most of them

  Magic Brown for a wound in his left arm.

  Les Quinley for a shot-up arm.

  Kenneth Ching for a graze on the left shoulder.

  Ron Holt for a broken left arm.

  James "Doc" Ellsworth for a shot-up left arm.

  Horse Ronson for a wounded left forearm and two rounds in his leg.

  Ross Lincoln for a shot-up side.

  Murdock went with them to the emergency room in the carrier's sick bay, and watched them all get their wounds checked over, treated, and bandaged.

  Ronson had been rushed into surgery, and Lincoln would be watched for another few hours before they went to work on his side wound.

  Murdock and DeWitt went to special chow with the men, and when the two officers came out they wanted only to find their quarters and the showers. Don Stroh stopped them and introduced them to three sailors.

  "Sir, we were on the Roy Turner when you boarded her. We were the three nuts up on the superstructure firing at the Kenyan soldiers coming from the front."

  "Yes, I remember," Murdock said. "You three did fine work that afternoon, saved us some casualties. We appreciate it."

  "Thank you, sir," Gunner's Mate First Class Vuylsteke said. "There's a favor we need from you, and we're not sure how to go about it. We talked to Mr. Stroh here, and he set up this meeting."

  Stroh shrugged. He led the way into a nearby room.

  They all leaned against the walls inside, and Stroh got it started.

  "These three guys were off ship when it was attacked and taken over by the coup. They hid out for three days with a lady in Mombasa. They kind of promised her they'd help her if she would keep them hidden."

  The rest of the story rolled out with the three sailors adding bits and pieces.

  "So that's it, sir," Vuylsteke said. "We figured if anybody could help Pita, it would be you and Mr. Stroh. I hear he can order our carrier's Captain around."

  Don chuckled. "Only when I need to."

  "You promised Pita you'd help her get to New York where she could try to be an entertainer?" DeWitt asked.

  Murdock was suddenly more tired than he'd been in a long time. He looked at Don. "So, Stroh, do it. Get her a passport, a visa to the U.S., and a round-trip plane ticket to New York. She might decide to come home. Charge it to the Navy. Hey, she saved the lives of three U.S. servicemen here, and maybe a couple of SEALS. It's a damn cheap price for five or six Navy people's lives."

  Stroh grinned. "Yeah, I figured you might ask for something like that. Talked to the new acting U.S. Ambassador on board. He said he'd set it up in a week or two, as soon as they get temporary quarters for the embassy."

  Murdock looked at the three sailors. "Thanks, guys, you did a great job. Now I'm getting a shower and some sack time."

  Ten minutes later his head hit the pillow, and he knew he'd kill anyone who woke him up before he had at least twelve hours of sleep.

  Murdock got up at noon the next day, put on fresh cammies, and went to check on the men. Half of them were in the assembly room they had used before. Jaybird had them cleaning their weapons and making a list of lost or used-up equipment. Looking around at the men, Murdock saw more white bandages than he did fighting men.

  He counted up. Eight of his platoon had been either killed or wounded. It was the toughest assignment he'd had yet. Stroh would have to get another platoon if anything popped in the next few weeks. He was going to authorize two weeks' leave for each man, and recuperation time for the worst hurt. Then he'd need at least two new men, and have to pick out a new scout. Ted Yates would be in Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego for a couple of months or more. Chances were that he'd not be fit for duty as a SEAL when he did heal. Murdock would have to find out how bad that shot-up leg was that Ronson had. It was possible that he and Lincoln wouldn't be fit for duty for six months. Damn! Murdock still battled a wave of fatigue.

  He wanted a two-week leave starting right now. Yeah, sure.

  He'd send Ed DeWitt on a fortnight's leave if he had to hogtie him and throw him on board an airplane himself.

  An hour later, Murdock talked with Don Stroh in his quarters.

  "The President says good job well done," Stroh said. "He'd give you a commendation of some kind, but you could never wear it."

  "An early battlefield promotion to lieutenant commander would be nice," Murdock said.

  "Sure, just what you want. Then you couldn't lead a platoon anymore."

  "He could change that too. Talk to the CNO. You must have some clout."

  "I do. How long do you want the carrier to babysit you here before you fly home?"

  "Two days. I'm going to sleep straight through. Then too, I want my wounded guys healed up a little. Never had this many men sh
ot up before. Are these assignments getting harder, or are we getting softer?"

  "Maybe you're all just used up for the moment," Stroh said with a slight frown.

  "Not by a fucking hindsight," Murdock bellowed. They both laughed.

  "Third Platoon is off the action board for at least two months, Stroh. We need two new men, maybe four new bodies. We need to get men well and back into shape and train on some new weapons I'm considering. You ever heard of the Heckler & Koch G11?"

  "Nope."

  "It's a weird-looking sub-gun that can kick out two thousand rounds a minute, carries a fifty-round magazine, and shoots a special caseless cartridge which is simply a block of explosive with a bullet buried inside it. Shoots a 4.7 round, and looks like a winner. I want to test it out."

  "So you want some time."

  "We must have some time, two months at least. I'm getting each man who can walk a two-week leave, and then we'll think about getting back to work. Heal first, train second."

  "You're getting conservative on me. What if the world blows up in a week?"

  "Call on the duty SEAL platoon in that sector. That's the way it was supposed to work, remember?"

  "YeA, I remember. So in two days I'll get you and me out of here and flapping our wings back to the good old USA. Unless you want to settle down in Kenya. I hear the local Army has a lot of openings for field-grade officers."

  Murdock threw a pillow at him, and went to check on his men in the sick bay.

  Wednesday, August 13

  2010 hours

  Ardith Manchester's apartment

  Washington, D.C.

  Murdock had been in the Nation's Capital for three days. It had taken him more than two weeks after the platoon arrived in Coronado to get the paperwork done, have new and replacement weapons ordered, pick out two new men for the platoon, and then fight with DeWitt to take a leave. He'd finally sent him on a two-week trip to Maui, Hawaii, where he could fish and swim all he wanted.

  Murdock stayed at his folks' place the first night in D.C. to take care of family responsibilities. He had lunch with his dad the next day in the House dining room, and then called Ardith.