Tomcat

by David E. Meadows

  “Gunny, that was my last clip.”

  Stapler reached in his pack, pulled out his last clip, and tossed it to the Marine. “Here. Use it carefully. It’s the last one for both of us.”

  Gonzales grabbed the clip in the air, looked over at Stapler, rammed the clip in, and fired over the gunny sergeant’s head, causing Stapler to duck as Gonzales blasted a charging enemy from that side. Stapler had not even heard the man coming toward him, much less seen him. The falling dead man landed beside the gunny sergeant.

  “Let’s ease back, Gonzales. See those rocks over there?” He asked, pointing to where three rocks formed a one-foot-high triangle. It wasn’t much, but it afforded more protection than this open ground. For how long, he had no idea. He felt confident the others had escaped. The M-16s of Garfield and Jones had stopped firing. In a way, he was disappointed, but in another, he was proud. The two were doing what they were supposed to do: protect those civilians. He hoped they made it. Two deaths were enough out here.

  Gonzales slid back first, being nearer the rocks. Stapler waited until the Marine reached the defensive position before he started crawling backward a foot at a time, twenty feet to the rocks. Gonzales fired a couple of rounds to keep the enemy heads down and slow their steady encroachment against their position. Stapler rose slightly and threw himself over the largest of the three rocks, tumbling against Gonzales. His breath caught as the cracked rib rolled against something hard on the ground. Stapler whipped around and crawled up against one of the rocks, his weapon pointed into the darkness lit by faint starlight reflecting off the white sands. The numerous rocks scattered around the base of the hill obscured any motionless enemy. They had stopped charging, but dark shadows weaving through the rocks separated the enemy from the terrain. Damn! They were, as Top Sergeant Macgregory would say, “significantly outnumbered by the bastards.”

  A new group of enemy warriors jumped up and charged, their screams on the left drawing their attention.

  About twenty of them. The tongue-twirling cries of the attackers came from the front at the same time. Then the enemy’s cries startled him from behind. This was it, he thought. They were surrounded. He fired cautiously, a burst to the front, whirling to the left, a blast of three rounds; then onto his back, the gun pointing between his combat boots, another three rounds. He rolled over, pointing the gun forward. His rapid rotation of fire caused the attackers to hit the ground. He wanted to save the few bullets remaining. Stapler expected any moment to feel the impact of enemy bullets ripping into his body.

  “I’m out, Gunny!” Gonzales cried, too loud.

  Stapler wrapped his hands around his M-16. He looked down at the weapon. He figured minimum two more shots, possibly five. Do we go alive or not?

  Two Bedouin figures appeared over the rocks on Gonzales’s side. Stapler shot them both, then heard a click where the third bullet should have been. Empty. No time for options. He pulled his bayonet out and clipped it on the end of the weapon. Gonzales saw him do it and followed suit.

  Stapler shoved Gonzales over and ran his hand swiftly over the front of the Marine’s shirt, hoping to discover a grenade or two. Nothing.

  The Latino hefted the Bedouin scimitar. “It was such a nice souvenir, Gunny.”

  The Bedouins shoved themselves up and ran toward them. The waves of flowing robes were about thirty feet away. Stapler rose onto his knees and saw Gonzales do the same. The two put their backs together, ready to push upward with their bayonets when the attackers came over the rocks.

  The cries of the attackers faded as the Taureg Bedouins neared. A fusillade of gunfire erupted over Stapler and Gonzales’s heads. Stapler recognized it as M-16s. Both Marines dove for the ground. Bodies tumbled, falling, tripping the attackers running behind them. From the rear came the familiar

  “Oorah,” the Devil Dogs’ own unique battle cry. Stapler reached over and pulled Gonzales’s head down as both friendly and hostile bullets flew across their position. As the gunfire tapered off, he chanced a look and saw the last of the attackers fleeing into the hills and back into the ravine. In seconds, the battlefield was clear.

  Behind him, Lieutenant Nolan walked up casually and looked down at the two men. “Evening, Gunny. You two taking a nap? Trying to keep all the fun to yourselves?”

  Stapler stood up, brushing himself off. “You have just saved the lives of a lot of natives, Lieutenant. Private Gonzales and I were just about to make a bayonet charge.

  It would have been unfair, two Marines against fifty enemy, but it was their fault they didn’t bring enough.”

  “Oh, Gunny, I would say about thirty-five is a more accurate count.”

  “No, sir,” added Private Gonzales, saluting. “I would say seventy to eighty.” “Yes, sir,” Stapler said, stepping over the rocks beside the officer and shaking his hand. “I think that number is nearer ninety to a hundred.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lieutenant Nolan said, releasing Stapler’s hand.

  “I think the lieutenant is right. We can discuss the numbers back at the compound.”

  “Over a hundred, now that 1 include the ones on the right,’” Gonzales added.

  “Good work, LT,” Stapler said as the two fell into step with each other. “You don’t know how good your young face looked … even with that pissant mustache.”

  “You don’t have to say it. Gunny. You would have done the same. Marines don’t leave Marines behind. Kind of like the Greek Army?”

  “Not funny, sir, but thanks.”

  Lieutenant Nolan smiled. “Same to you. Gunny.”

  The other Marines spread out along the way, pulled themselves up as the two men walked past. “How many did you bring, Lieutenant?”

  Garfield and Jones ran to Gonzales. A few words, and Garfield handed the Marine another clip, which he promptly shoved into the M-16.

  “I brought all of them, Gunny. The riggers are big boys and girls. Let them guard the compound. They need to be involved. We are going to have to use them if we intend to get out of here, or we won’t make it. As they taught us in leadership school, we need to make them stake holders in their own survival.’”

  The LT sounded much older than twenty-six. Amazing how combat not only matures you, it ages you. He rubbed his rib. Damn, it sure as hell was aging him.

  Thirty minutes later, with no further attacks, the Marines walked between the barrels making up the walls of this Fort Apache in the middle of the Sahara. Bearcat Jordan and Charlie Grant waited for them, a bottle of Jim Beam being passed from one. to the other.

  “Lieutenant, what’s the word from Homeplate?”

  “Homeplate can’t help. Gunny, and Base Butler isn’t fully operational. They haven’t changed their request. We have to move three hundred miles southwest of here, if we want the Army to come get us.” “Lieutenant,” said Bearcat. “We’ve finished. The truck is loaded.” “Loaded?” Stapler asked.

  “Yeah, Gunny. Just what you said earlier today.”

  “Uh, Lieutenant, what was it I said earlier today?” Stapler asked, his mind trying to remember all the advice he had been spitting out to the young officer during these past sixteen hours.

  “That we may have to drive out. You said Army CH 47s lacked the legs to get here. You were right. They don’t. Therefore, we have to get closer to them. Mr. Jordan and his people have been loading petrol, water, and food into the vehicles ever since I discussed this with Homeplate and Base Butler. We had hoped to use the truck and the humvee you were bringing back.”

  Stapler knew they discussed the idea, but in the back of his mind, he never really thought they would have to do it.

  Why? Because he knew not all would make it. Too many others had trekked off across the Sahara desert. He recalled a documentary on the history channel that talked about the number of adventurers who had disappeared into the Sahara. Never heard of again. The odds of them joining that list were high.

  “When do we intend to start?” Stapler asked, his mind whirling as he so
ught reasons for staying here where they had a good defensive position.

  “In thirty minutes, Gunny. What do you think? You know, after we just routed them, it makes sense to sneak out now. They won’t be expecting us to do anything else tonight, and they are going to be too busy licking their wounds. By God, did you see them run?”

  Stapler nodded. “Can I see the plan. Lieutenant?”

  “Come into the office,” Bearcat said, holding the bottle out to Stapler.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young blond college assistant. She seemed to be waiting for something.

  Stapler took the bottle and glanced at the lieutenant. who hurried away. Stapler took a big swig; with the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth before handing the bottle back. The strong whiskey burned going down before Stapler felt the warm glow as it hit his stomach. He would have So loved to have taken the bottle, gone off somewhere by himself, and finished it. but it would have to be put off until they gut back to civilization — if they got back.

  When he looked again, the lieutenant was walking over to the girl Just what I need. Stapler thought, a young stallion with sex hormones raging.

  “Great stuff,” said Bearcat. ‘ the wax in your e ars Stapler looked around the compound and saw the Marines resume their defensive positions at the perimeter.

  He knew they would remain there until he told them to stand down or they departed. “Mr. Jordan, can you get some food for my Marines?’”

  “Sure. Gunny. I’ll have Kuvashin take care of them right away,” Bearcat offered. He waved to the cook and shouted to him to feed everyone. Kuvashin waved in acknowledgment.

  He saw the young lady — what was her name? Sheila Anne? — touch the lieutenant lightly on the shoulder. The vision of a shark circling its prey came to mind. He turned back to Jordan. He didn’t want to watch the attack against the willing victim.

  “I would recommend everyone eat something and drink as much water as they can before we leave. It may be a while before we stop again once we get started. Mr. Jordan, use the food and water being left behind to feed everyone. Don’t touch anything you’ve packed on the vehicles.”

  Stapler and Charlie Grant continued to the office, arriving there as the lieutenant showed up alone and Mr. Jordan returned. The four men entered the office. Professor Walthers stood in front of the map. Thirty minutes until we depart, thought Stapler. Things were moving too fast for his liking. He never really expected them to have to do it. He expected either the Marines or the Army to come up with a plan to allow them to wait here until rescue arrived. They always had the weapons, manpower, and equipment to do it five years ago. Nevertheless, someone somewhere decided that wasn’t going to happen.

  He was a Marine, and by the time they stopped in front of the map. Stapler had reconciled himself that they were going to convoy. Convoy through hostile territory against hostile people in a hostile climate so they could reach a position where they might he rescued. Who was it that sang that convoy song — Jerry Lee Lewis?

  Bearcat leaned across the desk to the chart on the wall.

  “Here is where we are now. Here is the oasis we have to go through to replenish our water. How much farther did you say we will we need to go after here. Lieutenant’?” he asked, turning his face toward Lieutenant Nolan.

  Lieutenant Nolan looked for the scale at the bottom of the map and measured it off with a nearby twelve-inch wood ruler. “Recheck it just to be sure.” He stood back.

  “Another seventy miles will make it around two hundred.

  However, which direction do we go from the oasis?

  Gunny, one thing we discussed is, do we turn south toward the Army’s Base Butler or go west toward our own people?

  “Not much choice. Lieutenant. The only CH-53s we had. burned. We need to choose the Army, sir. We also know Homeplate is temporary. As soon as they detect any Moroccan units moving against them, they will vacate Homeplate. In addition, like us with the Tauregs, it may be only time before the Moroccan rebels turn their attention to our presence (here. We know Mauritania has allowed the Army to establish a small base about a hundred miles from their northern border.”

  “Yeah. I heard one of the intelligence officers say that Mauritania is very worried about what is going on in North Africa,” Lieutenant Nolan said to the men standing around the table.

  Stapler ignored the interruption and kept talking. “If we can get”—he put his finger on a small group of valleys south of the oasis—“through these hills, then we should be okay.”

  “Those aren’t hills. They’re valleys, called wadis here,” Bearcat corrected. “We don’t want to go there.”

  “It would be very dangerous,” The professor replied. “The wadis are a series of small, interconnected valleys that the Tauregs claim as their hereditary home. If we go in there, they will think we are attacking, invading them.

  They will defend it to the death.”

  “That wasn’t what I was talking about,” Bearcat continued.

  “These wadis were made by water. If we have a sudden rain squall, those wadis will be a death trap.”

  “When was the last time you had a rain squall in the Sahara?”

  “About a year ago, but it does happen,” Bearcat said.

  “It’s a chance I think we’ll have to take.” Stapler said.

  “The wadis will provide good cover for us if we have to hide or fight. They are directly between us and rescue. We have little choice.”

  “It will provide better cover for the Tauregs, who know the wadis like you know the back of your hand.” the professor added.

  “Regardless, this is where we have to go if we are going to get out of here alive.” Stapler jabbed his finger several times on the word Mamluk Wadi.

  Before anyone replied. Stapler turned to Lieutenant Nolan. “Sir, you need to contact both Homeplate and Base Butler one more time to see if they have come up with anything that will permit us to stay here. Find out what they’re doing to help us. If the final orders are for us to convoy out of here and head southwest, then give them our projected geographical coordinates and path. Make sure they understand we do not have GPS or accurate charts of the area. Give us a plus or minus ten-mile radius around the pickup point.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Sir.” Stapler was im with the young man who called himself “only a communications officer.” He’d be more impressed if the officer kept clear of the young lady.

  Nothing but trouble there. In the six hours he had been gone. Lieutenant Nolan had organized a forced movement that would have taken forever at the staff level. They would depart, crossing the desert to the southwest, avoiding the only road in front of the compound, staying clear of known roads to their west. According to Mr. Jordan, the hard clay So the southwest would make driving about the same as being on a road. If the clay was anything like the road they returned on from Alpha site, then that wasn’t saying much. Their first destination, nearly two hundred miles away, the Darhickam Oasis, would be where they would replenish their water.

  They all agreed that forty-three people would use up the food and water by then. They estimated three to four days to travel across this inhospitable oven of a country before they reached the oasis.

  Stapler walked to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup of the day-old stuff. The strong, night-aged tannic acid caused his mouth to lighten, but he forced it down anyway. It was two in the morning, he had been awake for over twenty-four hours, and he doubted he would get any sleep for another ten.

  Behind him. the lieutenant passed last-minute instructions to Bearcat Jordan. The officer had planned well from what Stapler had seen. If he hadn’t, it was too late to start changing the plan. Radio contact was going to be the hard factor. When the LT finished his transmission, Bearcat Jordan and a couple of other riggers pulled the radio out from the wall. They soon had the radio disconnected.

  Bearcat had another team working on a humvee so the radio could be installed on the front seat. The frequency had b
een sent to both Homeplate and Base Butler. This jerry-rigged radio would be their only means of contact while they traveled. The mobile phones some of the riggers offered were American digital. Even if they worked in this country, without the vicinity of microwave relay towers, they were useless.

  Stapler opened the door and walked outside into the cool, night air. His side hurt from the beating it had taken the last few hours, not dulling the pain of the cracked rib but rather spreading it equally around his body. He hoped Carol didn’t worry too much when she found out about this, but he knew she would. She would cry, wail, and blame the Marines for sending him here, and then she would calm down and watch CNN for the latest news.

  That is, if they made CNN news with the other things happening in the world. He wondered briefly if the major offensive in Korea that appeared to be turning back the North Koreans had worked. Shoot! By the time they returned to civilization, the whole world could have changed.

  Heinrich Wilshaven, the rigger in charge of vehicle maintenance, walked up to Stapler. “Ach, my nice Marine,” he said in a heavy, curt, Teutonic accent. “We have a problem.”

  “What is it?”