Recall

by David McCaleb

  Jim pointed to no-man’s-land. “E1, E2, finish them off. No prisoners. Crawler, protect our backside. Everyone else, cover.”

  Red sprinted around him to the open field. As he passed, Jim knocked his legs out from under him, driving Red into the patch of warm oil under the truck. Jim opened fire. The crack of an AK-47 came from behind, bursting the bent tire in front of Red’s face, loud as a grenade. Crawler knelt by the far side landing gear, firing at something hidden behind the Gulfstream.

  At last, the AKs stopped. Jim’s boots staggered next to the bumper. Red rolled out and caught him as he fell back.

  “Doc!” Red shouted, dragging Jim to the burst wheel, leaning him against the rim. From a small hole in the chest of his blouse, blood dyed the green of his fatigues brown. Red laid him flat and pressed a palm over the wound, stopping the bleeding.

  Jim stared up into the sky. When Ali leaned over and opened a green attaché, Jim wrapped one hairy fist around his collar as if grabbing a dog by the scruff of the neck. He pulled him close. “Don’t let me die in this damn uniform,” Jim said.

  Eyes still on Jim, Red felt the team’s gaze burn into his back. He looked up, still applying pressure to Jim’s chest. The men were different now, their eyes clouded with doubt. Fringed like the dust on Jannat’s dress, in the basement, when she stooped over the map. They’d all stooped too low. Doubt was an infection that needed to be cut out. It rattled a cage inside his belly.

  Ali pulled Red’s hand off Jim’s chest. “I need to get at the wound, sir.”

  Sir? The entire op it’d been Red, or maybe Major. Something awoke now, inside that cage, as bullets clattered against the engine and gearbox. Thick sulfuric gear lubricant fell, mixing into the oil pool like cream in coffee. Jim was right. No-man’s-land had to be cleared. Red looked at Lieutenant Richards. No, Richards shouldn’t go in case Red got killed. “Lanyard, Crawler, Carter, follow me. Everyone else, cover.”

  Red ran past the mangled front grille of his truck, accelerating to a sprint, Lanyard right behind him. Footfalls from the others running to keep up followed close. A hundred meters lay between them and the first dead truck. A soldier in a maroon beret stepped out beside the wheel mired deep into the earth. Red dropped to his knees, sliding in the muck, bringing his rifle to bear. His finger wasn’t yet on the trigger when half the soldier’s skull exploded, spraying tannish brain matter across the heads of uncut grass. That would be the last time Marksman beat him to the shot, Red resolved.

  Red hid behind the grille of the truck. Crawler scurried up, breathing hard. Red held up two fingers, then a fist, and pointed to the rear of the truck. Crawler smiled and pulled two grenades. He tossed them below the rear axle. The grenades boomed, one after the other, the second blast muffling a scream. Red circled around. A soldier wearing the same epaulets as Crawler was sprawled on his back in the grass, clawing away from the truck, digging in with his elbows, knees too mangled to rise. Red looked away and squeezed the trigger.

  AKs clattered from the direction of the next truck only the width of a football field away. Red flattened himself behind the body of the soldier he’d shot and Lanyard dove behind the truck. He couldn’t see any shooters, only muzzle flashes from behind the tires.

  He stayed flat, shots passing overhead, the pressure waves slapping his back, deceptively gentle. The crack-crack-crack rang in his ears.

  Marksman’s rifle sounded again. Thank God. Red brought up his M4 in time to see a helmet roll out from under one of the other truck’s wheels. A second soldier stood and ran away, keeping the truck between himself and Marksman. Red put his iron sights two feet ahead of the guy and squeezed the trigger, dropping him chest-first.

  He held up a fist and pointed to the truck. Crawler took aim and launched a grenade behind it. Several soldiers abandoned cover and ran into the open field. Shooting them in the back as they’re running away only seems cowardly, Red told himself, squeezing the trigger again and again, raising his sights higher for the faster ones headed to the edge of the runway. He couldn’t risk even one getting a lucky shot at the Gulfstream. After that, soldiers abandoned the other vehicles like rats fleeing a warehouse fire. His team got all they could, but the smart ones would still be out there, hiding in the grass, waiting for them to move to the runway.

  The pitch of the engines rose. Red ran back to the plane, Marksman’s rifle punctuating the end of any Artesh soldier stupid enough to break cover. Fire came from the perimeter fence, but only a few bullets slapped the concrete. Time to get in the air, before someone shows up with a heavy MG.

  Ali had the colonel’s shirt off and a mound of bandage strapped to his chest, crimson blooming in its center. Red was glad not to see any evidence of an exit wound as he helped Ali lift Jim in a fireman’s carry, staggering under the weight.

  The plane rolled forward. Lori yelled something from the cockpit, her words indecipherable above the whine of the jets.

  Crawler stood beside Marksman, eyeing the field as everyone scrambled up the ladder, throwing the baskets that carried their prisoners onto the floor, like thoughtless baggage handlers. Red kicked them down the aisle; Richards pulled them the rest of the way. Red envied their heroin-induced oblivion.

  He leaned outside the open door and called, “Crawler, Marksman.” A bullet smacked next to his skull, and burned itself into the plastic bulkhead. It was turned sideways, keyholed, having lost ballistic stability during its long flight.

  Crawler cut the tie-down straps that held the crates in the back of his truck. He pushed the stack out onto the tarmac and heaved one of the larger ones onto his back. A flat box.

  Marksman had one foot on the ladder, running with the other like a skateboarder shoving off as the plane rolled forward.

  “Leave it!” Red yelled, scowling. Crawler held it tightly, trotting toward the ladder.

  “Son of a bitch!” Marksman said as he jumped off and pitched his M14 up to Red. He grabbed the other end of the crate and helped run it to the plane. Red jumped out of the way. The crate landed at his feet, gouging a long rip in the carpet. He was about to shove it back out but Crawler and Marksman jumped through the door and hefted it to the back of the plane.

  Jim was on the floor, legs elevated on an Italian leather chair. The prisoners were still in the baskets, now atop the cracked wooden crate in front of the bathroom. Everyone else was gaping out the windows.

  “Shoot through them if you see anything!” Red yelled.

  Ali reached into Jim’s cargo pocket and tossed the sat phone to him. He needed to get in touch with their Navy liaison. Maybe get an escort. Probably wouldn’t work without notification. He hit speed dial for the Det. Judging by the echo on the other end, they had him on speakerphone in the fusion cell’s command center. He gave their status, then said, “Give them our position. Make sure the trigger-happy squids know we’re flying toward the Gulf, low altitude, not squawking shit.”

  Cold wind swept through the door as the plane lurched forward. They weren’t even on the runway yet. Red pointed Richards to the door, then ducked into the cockpit. Lori’s fingers were stretched across the throttles as she pushed them forward. In front three security cars were headed onto the far end of the runway.

  Crawler yelled from the back, “Jeeps are swarming the runway behind us.”

  Red leaned over to Lori. “Maybe there’s a cross runway.”

  “Taxiway’s empty. Should have enough to get us in the air.” She worked the rudder, weaving the plane back and forth like a drunk. Ahead was a break in the pavement, a thirty-foot grass strip.

  “Stop there and make a run-up in the other direction,” he said. “More distance that way.”

  Lori pushed a lever down and the flap gauge pinned out at forty. She shoved the throttles forward all the way. Red jumped into the other seat and punched his comm. “Brace!” She was going to try to make it across.

  As they approached the grass strip, she pulled back on the wheel and the nose angled up. When the rear wheels reached the
opening, Red was pressed forward in the harness as the earth clawed at the tires of the heavy plane. Metal utensils tinkled in the pantry. Wood snapped near the back as the crate crashed into Crawler’s seat. The nose slammed back down, but the plane was already on the other side of the strip and they were accelerating again.

  At one hundred ten knots Lori mumbled, “Close enough.” She pulled back on the wheel once more.

  The rumbling of the taxiway fell silent. The plane lifted off. Lori held it on a shallow angle till the airport fence, then pulled into a steep climb, banking away.

  The plane shuddered. “Look for a lever with a little wheel on the end,” she said. “Put the gear up!”

  Red flipped the control and the vibrations stopped. The plane fell silent. Tension seemed to vaporize into the thinning atmosphere through the craft’s metal skin.

  Red reached across the console and kneaded Lori’s shoulder. “You did good,” he said, smiling. Her traps were tight under his fingers, then softened as she relaxed her neck and breathed a sigh. Her cheeks bloomed pink and the paleness of her knuckles on the wheel disappeared.

  They’d be out of Iran in less than an hour. All they had to do was land the plane.

  * * *

  Hope pressed Red’s consciousness, asking to be let in. But they weren’t out of danger yet. “Get distracted, and get killed,” Tom always said.

  Red twisted as far as he could to look down the aisle. It was a private transport with plush lavender carpet and fuchsia paneling. Ten steel-blue seats and room for more. He unhooked himself and walked back. Marksman had his rifle across his lap, reloading, still smelling like the Pardis. Crawler pushed the crate back and righted the three market baskets, then lit a fresh cigar. Richards and Carter kept watch out the windows. Jim was still on the floor, one eye cracked open.

  Red pointed at Crawler, about to tell him to put out his cigar, but noticed he was still holding the sat phone. Its clock said it had been on for four minutes.

  He put it to his ear. Bitching Betty droned “Altitude, altitude.” He looked toward the cockpit. It wasn’t coming from there. Must be from the phone.

  Then a young female voice came through the mic, drowning out Betty’s warning. “Repeat, two bogies. Time to intercept, five minutes. Look like MIG 29s.”

  Chapter 25

  Improvise

  The wheel went slack in Lori’s hands. The port wing dropped and slammed down, as if there was a pothole in the air. “Turbulence,” she said, remembering a rough landing once following a turboprop, not allowing enough time for the air to settle.

  “How long?” Red yelled into the phone. His eyes were sharp and anxious. This couldn’t be good. He stretched a leg over the throttles and jumped back into the copilot seat, fumbling with the straps. “We’ve got MIG 29s headed our way,” he said.

  Pain cut through Lori’s head, like a rod twisting from spine to temple. MIGs? There wasn’t anything she could do about interceptors. They’d blow the Gulfstream out of the sky without even getting a visual. Or gun them down with one pass. How’d they get airborne so quickly? “Maybe we can tail a civilian plane. They won’t be able to tell us apart.”

  “The Iranians won’t care,” Marksman said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  Lori flinched. She hadn’t heard him slip up and kneel in the aisle behind them.

  Red held up a finger, ear pressed to the phone.

  “Can we put that on the radio?” she asked. “I need to hear.”

  Red shook his head, finger still up.

  “We could,” Marksman said. “But it wouldn’t be secure.”

  Red put the phone on speaker and held it between them. “This is the Navy. A Hawkeye, headed our way from the Gulf. She’s tracking us and the MIGs.”

  “I have escort from a Growler,” came a high-pitched female voice, full of static. “I’ve sent him ahead. He’ll jam the MIGs.”

  “What the hell’s a Growler?” Lori asked. “Can’t it take out the MIGs?”

  “Maybe. Shorter range,” Marksman said, voice low. “But Ali never had the chance to get out a message, back at Jannat’s. Navy probably doesn’t know what to make of us. Treat us like a threat till they know different. Won’t be splashing any MIGs over Iran.”

  “Can’t you shoot them down?” Red asked into the phone.

  “Negative. But if they threaten the fleet I’ll send an SM up their ass. Same goes for you.”

  Great. So all Lori could do—again—was wait. She had the wheel of the plane in her hand, yet nothing had changed. Still stuck in a damn cell. Maybe this Growler thing could jam them long enough to get out.

  Her vertical velocity indicator was blurry. She rubbed her eyes with a cold, chapped knuckle. Damn it. Never been farsighted before. After a minute the gauge came into focus. It was angled so low she felt light in her seat. Been yo-yoing up and down ever since takeoff. Where the hell’s the trim tabs? She eyed the multi-display in the center. Its green background glowed evenly, as if nothing was wrong. Two hundred more miles till the border. Then she had to get someone to talk her down into Balad. How the hell was that going to happen? How was she even going to know where it was? She never asked for this. Everyone would be killed if she augered the landing. What about the kids? Who were the godparents in the will? Was it the in-laws?

  Red laid a hand on her knee. “You’ll do fine. Keep the throttles down and the nose west. We’ll get this other stuff straight.”

  The voice on the phone squawked, “Growler will be close enough to jam in two minutes.”

  “So they won’t be able to shoot us down?” Red asked.

  “Maybe,” said the voice. “Growler will jam radar. Fry their nuts like popcorn. Infrared’s less reliable. If they’ve got heat seekers, they might be able to get you. Most of their stuff is old. Jamming should work.”

  “But they could still ram us?” Lori asked.

  Marksman switched his weight to his other knee. “Won’t go kamikaze, but they’ve still got guns. Hell, they could make a supersonic pass and blow our plane apart with the shock wave. Even if the Growler jams everything, it’s only buying time.”

  Lori thought back to the summer her family had lived in Spain, when she was in seventh grade. Their hacienda had a swimming pool bordered in shiny blue and red mosaics. She’d played Marco Polo with her brothers and friends from school at her twelfth birthday party. Then opened presents, all wrapped in bright orange tissue paper. Maybe this could be like their pool game. The MIGs blind. If they hadn’t gotten a visual, she might be able to sneak out.

  She turned toward the Gulf.

  “What’re you doing?” Red asked.

  “Headed to the carrier group. Calling Polo.”

  “The Navy will blow us out of the sky.”

  “I’m gonna break off when they start jamming. Maybe the MIGs will think that’s where we’re headed. With any luck, they’ll do something stupid. Then the Navy can deal with them.”

  A minute later, the phone shouted again. “Growler reports jamming in operation.”

  Lori dropped the nose and banked right. The ground came up faster than expected. She was pressed back hard into her seat, pulling level, just off the deck. She licked salty perspiration from above her lip, then leaned forward and looked out the window, searching for the planes. Tehran stretched across the far horizon. Visibility was good, but a brownish haze capped the distant skyline, like what you’d see over Denver. Out the other window rose the Zagros Mountains, jutting rugged from the tan plains. Red’s eyes were pinned forward. “Still don’t like my driving?”

  He mumbled something about the Pennsylvania turnpike.

  “Ha. Wasn’t too long ago you called me a control freak.” His face went blurry, like the gauges. Outside, tan earth streaked with orange veins gave way to an ice-blue lake.

  “Keep us out of the drink,” he said.

  “They didn’t follow,” bubbled from the phone in tones of girlish excitement.

  Red covered the mic with his
thumb. “Won’t be long till they figure out what’s going on. Stay low. Keep the throttles open.”

  Lori looked at the multi-display again. Its green glow was blank. She tapped it, then grabbed the wheel like she was going to lose balance. “See if you can get that thing fixed.”

  Marksman pounded on the gauge. “It’s jammed. Have to wait to see if it comes back. Don’t worry, the Hawkeye won’t let us get lost.”

  On cue, the phone voice said, “We’ve got approval for armed response. Launching soon. We’ll vector to intercept. Escort you out.”

  “Thank God. How long?”

  “Seventeen minutes.”

  The rod twisted and the console blurred again.

  * * *

  “We’ll be dead by then!” Red shouted, realizing too late his voice carried beyond the cockpit. How’d the Navy get the approval for armed response anyway? The Det’s Navy liaison? No, not that fast. Maybe someone in the command center. But with the rush and the firefight, he hadn’t put in any request. So, how’d they know? Oh, the tags.

  He leaned into the aisle. “Now that they know we’ve picked up their assets, we’re politically safe again.”

  Lori had dropped even lower once they were over the lake. Seemed to him the mast of a sailboat would slap their belly. He remembered his uncle Art telling how once he’d run into a SAM nest in Vietnam. He’d turned and burned, dropping his Phantom low and punching the throttle. Followed his wingman out through a valley and over a lake, their shock waves exploding the grass huts along the shore.

  Red forced his mind back into the cockpit. Airspeed was four hundred fifty. He struggled to do the math in his head. “Fifty minutes,” he said. “That should get us to Balad.”

  “MIGs are changing course,” the sat phone announced. Her voice was too calm for the situation, like a doctor saying, It’s cancer. Red stared at the rubber-coated demon in his hand. Its battery warmed his palm as the words vibrated down his forearm, distorted from the speaker’s volume. He wanted to crush the girlish voice inside, tell it to go to hell, to get some balls next time it opened its mouth.