Tomcat tsf-3

by David E. Meadows

  Stapler and the lieutenant had been the first two out of each helicopter as soon as the behemoths set down, leading the platoon toward the compound. They were running in dispersed formation, in accordance with Marine Corps training, when the two helos exploded, knocking most of them to the ground. Probably saved their lives, because intense gunfire erupted from the surrounding dunes at the same time, followed by a horde of tho be-dad Bedouins charging down on them.

  If — and (is a very big word — they had landed and loitered near the helos, the rocket-propelled grenades— RPGs — fired by the attackers would have gotten them.

  They’d all be dead now. Moreover, Carol would still be out there with those damn credit cards.

  A burly man in a short khaki shirt and a jungle helmet approached Stapler and Nolan. Beer gut, no neck, and thick arms, observed Stapler. About same height as the lieutenant and a couple of inches shorted than Stapler. If he weren’t out in the middle of the southern Algerian Sahara desert, the man could easily pass for a Philadelphia steel worker.

  “I’m Chuck Jordan, better known as Bearcat,” the man said, shaking hands with Lieutenant Nolan. He turned and shook Stapler’s hand. “I’m the supervisor here.”

  “What the hell is going on, Mr. Jordan?” Stapler asked, wiping the moisture from the handshake on his cam mie trousers.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. We had no idea anyone was within miles of here until you landed, and then all hell broke loose. Where’d they come from?”

  “Wasn’t just hell that broke loose,” Stapler said. “We just lost a lot of good Marines. You had radio communications with us. Why didn’t you tell us you were under attack?

  We would have approached differently and probably saved the lives of those who died out there!”

  “Sergeant—”

  “It’s Gunny or Gunnery Sergeant.”

  Bearcat leaned forward, his eyes contracting into tight, angry slits. “Gunny, they attacked as you landed. I would have fucking called you if we had had time, but you landed at the same fucking time that they fucking attacked.

  Does that make any sense to you?”

  Several seconds of silence passed before Stapler nodded, ignoring the anger. “Those two helicopters were the only means of getting us out of here. Without them, we’re stranded like Robinson Crusoe until the Army can get here. How many are there of you, sir?”

  “I have twenty-two riggers here and another ten at Alpha site.”

  “Alpha site?”

  Bearcat nodded. “Alpha site is our group of rigs about ten kilometers to the northwest. I talked with Charlie when we got word you were on your way. That was before sunrise this morning. They are waiting for us to pick them up. I told them we’d go get them after you landed.”

  He didn’t like this. “You were supposed to be ready to depart when we landed, sir.”

  “That may be. Sergeant — Gunny, but it’s hardly safe to go tramping around the desert in the dark. Especially the way things are in Algeria right now. Plus we still have a contract to keep pumping. I’ve gone through overnight changes of government before in Third World nations and have yet to see it change the oil contract.” Stapler kept the thought to himself that those ten at Alpha site might already be dead. No need to upset anyone yet. If Alpha site had been surprised, too, he doubted there would be anyone to pick up. He ran his hand across the top of his head, felt the heat through the sparse hair, and suddenly realized that somewhere around here he had left his helmet. Another stupid mistake. He glanced around and saw it in the sand near Cowboy Joe-Boy. Too many stupid mistakes since they landed. He needed to calm down and take charge, like the Marine Gunnery Sergeant he was.

  “Joe-Boy, bring me my helmet!”

  Cowboy grabbed the helmet and ran to Stapler.

  “Thanks, Joe-Boy, now get back to your position. What in the hell do you mean leaving it, just because I told you to?”

  Cowboy grinned slightly. “Sure thing, Gunny.” The young Marine turned and hurried back to the barrels, shaking his head on the way.

  Stapler took the helmet and jammed it down on his head. He would need the helmet. Everyone would need their helmets. Even the oil riggers wore ball caps or jungle hats. They’d need their helmets not only for combat protection but as protection from the sun already baking the morning sands. Sweat soaked his belt line, causing the top of the trousers to rub with every step. It would not be long before he had a raw area around his waist. Stapler undid his shirt and removed the flak jacket. He knew the importance of the flak jacket, but he also knew that he wouldn’t survive wearing it. Each breath was hot. Hot! No other word for it. Hot and dry. The other Marines were watching the gunny. He had experience. He had been in combat. None of them had ever fired a piece in anger.

  Stapler put his shirt back on and noticed the other Marines, including the LT, removing their flak jackets.

  Stapler pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his face and forehead. A bad case of chicken pox as a boy and an inability to leave teenage acne alone had left Stapler’s face heavily pockmarked.

  A thin, sandpaper-rough face that seemed appropriate for a tough Marine. He put away the handkerchief and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, tangled around his spare pack of cigarettes, from his shirt pocket. The relief from the glare of the sun was immediate.

  “Gunny, I think we should contact Homeplate and let them know what has happened. Need to also contact the Army at Base Butler to send in backup.”

  “Yes, sir, we should do both. But the Army will be unable to help. They—”

  “Why?”

  “They got nothing there yet, sir. Even if they had, they would be Army Forty-sevens; not, Marine Fifty-threes.

  Chinooks don’t have the legs our CH-Fifty-threes have.

  The bad news is, I think we are too far away for them to come get us and be able to return to Base Butler or divert to Homeplate.”

  Behind Bearcat, three people, who looked nothing like oil riggers, approached.

  “What is the Army doing in Mauritania?” Bearcat asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Stapler answered, watching the three approach. “I think it has something to do with this little war with Algeria and Libya; this new country they announced at the United Nations several weeks ago.”

  The gray-bearded man, leading the three, looked to be in his late fifties, early sixties. The jungle hat jammed down on his head made his ears stand out. Other than Bearcat, he was the only one in the compound wearing a jungle hat. The others had ball caps for the most part. Stapler noticed a pronounced limp in his right leg, which explained the cane the man carried in his hand.

  A young lady pranced behind him. Prance was the only word he could think to explain her walk. Her head tilted at a high angle, exposing a smooth chin. A sandy blond ponytail stuck out the back of a red Atlanta Braves ball cap, swishing with each step, brushing her shoulders. Hobv in the hell did something like that find its way out here? Stapler thought. He looked at her feet, half expecting to discover high heels. He grinned at the thought. No high heels, but leather-laced Timberland walking boots with pink socks turned down on top showed she had some sense of where she was. She belonged on a boardwalk somewhere rather than in the middle of the desert. He looked up at her face to discover her returning the stare, aware of his appraisal.

  He turned his attention to the young man beside her.

  The thin black man looked angry, as if he wanted to take on the world. A white shirt with the top two buttons undone exposed a firm, smooth chest that glistened with sweat. The man’s eyes shifted from her to Stapler, as if expecting someone to mug him at any moment. His hair, at one time, had been arranged in nice cornrows, but the desert heat had untangled most to give the man a look as if he just stretched from a rough night of humid sleep.

  Bearcat glanced over his shoulder to see what caused the gunny sergeant to frown. He grinned and pointed at the three as they neared the group. “Lieutenant, Sergeant, this is Professor H
arold Walthers from the University of Mason and his assistants—”

  “It’s George Mason University, Mr. Jordan.” the professor corrected, smiling. He placed his cane in front of him and crossed both hands over the top of it. “Pardon Mr. Jordan. He is determined to associate us with every university but the right one.”

  “Oh, yeah, George Mason University,” Bearcat corrected, scratching his head as he tried briefly to recall where the university was located.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you Marines. I have been trying to tell Mr. Jordan for the past couple of days that something was up. Our guides — both of them Tauregs — disappeared two days ago, after delivering enigmatic warnings for us to leave, also. Knowing the history of these nomadic people, I should have guessed something like this was going to happen.”

  Professor Walthers stuck his hand out and shook Lieutenant Nolan’s hand. He did not offer the same to Stapler.

  Just what we need, thought Stapler. A bunch of eggheads to complicate this mess we’re in.

  “But who listens to academia anymore? These are my assistants,” Walthers said, pointing to the lean black man beside him and then to the young lady who, through narrow eyes, glared back at Stapler. “This fine gentleman is Mr. Karim Abdul Washington from the University of Pennsylvania, a graduate student studying anthropology.

  This is Miss. Sheila Anne Forester, a senior at my own university, George Mason. She is our assistant at the dig, without whom we would be hard-pressed to write our results when we return. I don’t know if Mr. Jordan has had time to tell you why we are here, but we are surveying cave paintings that the Loffland Company discovered a few months ago. You do not find—”

  “Sorry, Professor,” Stapler interrupted. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ll have do the life stories later.” He looked at the desert surrounding the compound. “We need to get organized in the event those out there return.”

  “Quite right, Sergeant,” Professor Walthers replied unabashed, straightening up, and tucking his cane under his arm.

  “You military types are all alike, you know. Gunny Sergeant,” the young assistant, Sheila, said. “You don’t have to be rude, and it doesn’t matter how long a life story takes; the point is that it is a life story.” She stood with her hands braced against her hips. “So let me continue with our life story, because now it is yours, also. We didn’t ask to be put in the middle of this. And now that we are, it is your responsibility to get us out. So? When do you intend to airlift us out of here?”’

  “As soon as we can. ma’am.”

  The right side of her lip turned up. Nodding her head, she looked at Professor Walthers and Karim. “Stands to reason. Send in the military, and they come with only one plan.” She took a couple of steps foi ward until she stood in front of Lieutenant Nolan and Stapler. “We are American citizens, and our lives are endangered. You are Marines. You are what Newxweek and Time magazines say you are; the nation’s nine-one-one force. How many did they send to protect us? Five? Six? I don’t see many here.”

  “Miss. Forester, I am sure—” Professor Walthers interrupted.

  “Professor,” she snapped. “Their job is to protect us.

  Our job is to be protected. 1, for one, intend to live up to my expected role in this endeavor.” She paused and stared at the lieutenant. “And I expect them to do theirs.”

  Stapler noticed her ponytail bounced up and down, punctuating each word, as she spoke. How does she do that? he thought. Her accent sounded almost British.

  “I can do my job quite well. I expect them to do theirs equally as well. Right now? It does not look like they are doing such a great job. Look out there,” she ordered, pointing past the two Marines. “Are those the only helicopters the calvary rode when they came charging over the horizon? Those are the only two helicopters I see, and from what I see, those two are not going to be flying us anywhere.”

  Stapler stepped forward, his face leaning toward the young woman. “Ma’am, those helicopters contain the bodies of our Marines. I think—” he continued, his voice rising with each word.

  Lieutenant Nolan touched Stapler lightly on the shoulder as he interrupted. “We will do everything we can, miss, but please be patient, and we’ll do our job. We are here and, as you pointed out, our job is to protect not only you, but everyone else. If you will do your job as you have already defined, listen to us, and do what we ask, then we’ll get you out of here.”

  “Safely, I hope?”

  Stapler grunted, thinking, Let her walk back, hardly realizing how prophetic this would become.

  “Safely, of course,” Nolan replied with a smile creeping across his lips.

  Stapler caught a soft twinkle pass through her eyes.

  “Come on, LT. We need to finish our survey and arrange defenses.” “I’m talking, pl easel she said arrogantly.

  Lieutenant Nolan pulled his helmet back down. “Okay, Gunny. What first?”

  “Ammo, guns.”

  The two turned to leave.

  “I’m still talking, and you’re ignoring me,” Sheila Anne Forester said petulantly.

  “Come on. Sheila. They’re just as trapped as we are,” Karim said, pulling her lightly by the arm, glaring at the lieutenant.

  “Oh, shut up, Abdullah,” she said, small furrows appearing across her forehead as her light eyebrows bunched in anger. She shook off his hand, causing her ponytail to flip over her left shoulder. She reached up and flicked it back.

  She drew her foot back to kick the sand, suddenly thought better of it when she saw Stapler’s eyes narrow, and instead turned and stomped off. A few steps away, she turned and gave Lieutenant Nolan a quick glance and a smile. The bright glare of the sun darkened the shadow under the LT’s helmet lid, obscuring his face, but Stapler thought he detected the young officer blushing. Shit! Just another annoyance to add to this mess. Raging hormones.

  Where’s a bucket of water when you need it?

  “It’s Karim, and you know it. Quit calling me Abdullah!”

  the Afro-American student shouted after her. Without turning, she stuck her hand up with her middle finger extended and continued walking away.

  “Guess I’d better go after her so she don’t do something stupid like marching off across the desert,” Karim said. Shaking his head, he ran after the woman. “Sheila, wait up!”

  What she needed was a good walloping across the bottom, thought Stapler. He wondered briefly if he put her across his lap and taught her some manners would the Marine Corps take his pension? Yes, in a heartbeat, they would; the Marines don’ (pay you for having fun.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye as the young black man caught up with her. He turned his attention to Bearcat.

  “Mr. Jordan, what kind of weapons do you have?” He saw the LT staring after the young woman. “LT,” he said, his voice loud, “We need to know what weapons they have, don’t we, sir?”

  The oil rigger slapped the holster he was wearing. “I have this Colt, and we have a small locked armory with ten M-Sixteens. They’re protection against raiding bands of Tauregs who periodically ride through here. Most times, they just trade, but the guns keep them honest. At least, as honest as Tauregs can be when you’re looking.”

  “Tauregs? What are they?”

  Professor Walthers interjected, “If I may, Tauregs are the desert nomads of the Sahara, Sergeant. An anachronism from another age. actually. They have lived in The Sahara desert for centuries, plying the ancient trade routes between sub-Saharan Africa and the north coast. They were famous eons ago as the only means of bringing valuable goods from the legendary Timbuktu to Barbary. Their religious and cultural beliefs center around a portion of the Sahara running from Mauritania, northeast to the coastal areas of Libya. This is their homeland and intruders which we arc to them — have always been fair game.

  They have a warrior ethic that would rival you Marines; they just don’t have the weapons or modern training you do nor do they work well together. F
iercely independent, I must add … almost to the point of belligerence. I would submit that the Tauregs are the primary reason the French never tamed the Sahara desert in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In fact—”

  “Could this attack have been the work of them?” Stapler asked.

  “Some of those dead out there are Tauregs.” Bearcat jumped in. “The Tauregs who visited here and who we got t o know were always poorly armed. They may have a few old Russian Kalashnikov rifles, but not the automatic weapons used against us today.”

  “Then it looks as if someone has armed them,” Lieutenant Nolan added.

  “You said you had M-sixteens. How much ammo do you have? All we have is what we carried when we left to come here.”

  “I can look, Sergeant. I don’t think we have much … never expected to fight a war out here. But, I know we have a crate with loaded magazines in it.”

  “Good, Mr. Jordan. I need to know how much you’ve got, and I’d like to check out any other boxes of ammo you have.” The magazines should be interchangeable with their weapons, but Stapler would feel better if he checked it personally. One box wasn’t going to last them long if they had to fight a couple of more battles like they just did’

  “No problem, Sergeant. We can do that.”

  Stapler watched the big man motion another oil rigger toward him. Jordan walked toward the approaching rigger.

  “Lieutenant, with your permission, I’ll finish my survey of the area.”

  “Very well, Gunny.”

  Stapler turned on his heel and walked away from the growing crowd. Ought to be somewhere a man can take a leak. He hated crowds. He hated them even when they didn’t make good targets. Stapler noticed that two of the riggers were women, or at least they had what looked like tits under those T-shirts. It was hard to tell with those masculine tattooed arms and short haircuts. The earrings helped. He heard one of them in a gruff voice tell the other, “Dot. quit worrying. It’ll be all right.” But he didn’t turn to see who said it because right now it wasn’t all right — not by a long shot.