“On foot?”
“No, let Private Henry and Gonzales — who seem to be the most proficient on the camels — ride back a few miles on our track and see if they can see anything.” Stapler thought the idea was a bad one. What if they get lost?
“Yes, sir.” Stapler turned to the two privates. “Take your camels and you two backtrack our trail and see if you can spot anyone tailing us. But don’t go out of sight of this convoy. There’s no reference here in the desert, and we don’t want to lose you.”
“You want me to go with them, Gunny?” Corporal Heights asked, hoping the gunny would let him. He hadn’t gotten to ride the camels yet.
Stapler thought a few moments and then said, “No, you stay here and track them. Keep in contact with them on the brick.” The two Marines turned their camels and at a trot rode back along their trail. Corporal Heights crawled back on the bed of the truck to watch them.
“A lot of us are going to be walking now,” Stapler said.
“Why don’t you tell us the truth?” Sheila blared out.
“We’re going to die out here in this godforsaken land, aren’t we?” The men turned and looked, but no one said anything. What could we say? thought Stapler. If they were going to die out here, by God they were going to die trying to escape.
It’d be a cold day in hell before he curled up and waited for death.
She shook her head. Her arms hung limply by her sides. Stapler noticed for the first time the small, sunburned blisters on the young woman’s lips and a two-inch square abrasion along her right cheek. Her blond hair that swung so freely in a ponytail when they first met was matted by perspiration to her cheeks and neck. For some reason, he never assumed Miss. Sheila Anne Forester was suffering as much as the rest of the group. For some reason, he assumed she was impervious to the heat and the bad conditions. Stapler tugged his ear. Now, why would he think that? She was as frightened as the rest. The facade was crumbling. In a way, it disappointed him to discover the nemesis of the convoy showing weakness. He liked his opponents strong.
Sheila screamed, “Christ! I don’t think it takes a lot of thought to figure out we have ten miles to the wadis, forty miles through its winding ways.” Her hand moved back and forth like a snake. “And then still another hundred miles to go? I am not stupid. I know you’re not. We started out from the compound with every available container filled with water. We had food for weeks, everyone said.
And enough fuel to travel. It’s the water. It’s the stupid, fucking water. We ran out of water before we had gone fifty miles the first day and a half. We are less than one day from the oasis, and already empty water containers are rolling around in the back of the truck. Those in the back of the—” She stopped, put her hands to her face and ran back toward the humvee in the rear.
Lieutenant Nolan turned to follow but stopped at the last second.
After several moments of awkward silence, Bearcat Jordan broke the spell. “She’s right. We’re not rationing the water effectively. I know you Marines are; you fill your canteens and then leave the water for the rest of us.
We are going to have to ration the water very carefully from here on out if we are going to make it.”
Stapler let go of his earlobe and nodded. “We were supposed to be doing that now.” He looked around.
“I don’t think anyone really took responsibility for rationing the water, Gunnery Sergeant,” Professor Walthers said. “It has been more of a you get thirsty, you drink.”
Lieutenant Nolan stepped forward. “Bearcat is right, and 1 think we all understand what we have to do. Since I am technically in charge of this convoy, I am assuming responsibility for rationing the water. From now on, no one drinks until either I or the Gunnery Sergeant ration it out.
No more water today. We will ration some out tonight when we stop.”
“Maybe we should ration some out now and then do it again tonight,” Bearcat recommended.
Lieutenant Nolan shook his head. “No. No more water until tonight.” He cupped his hands over his eyes and glanced up toward the blazing sun.
Stapler guessed what was going through the young LT’s mind. He hoped he could manage until tonight also, but knew he and the LT would. They had to. Leaders set examples. He learned that as a private, and it was reinforced in Marine Corps Senior NCO School. Marine Corps Officer Candidate School taught the same course to the LT, only they used bigger words.
Stapler nodded, impressed. “You heard the LT.”
Stapler stepped around the side of the truck, away from the front. Forty-three of them started this journey four days ago. Forty-three still lived. The white clouds of steam from the engine of the truck had stopped. Not all forty-three would survive the four days needed to reach the rendezvous point, a rendezvous where he expected Army Chinooks to pluck them out. This plucking was to occur in two days, and no way he saw them arriving there in two days. Would the Army wait? Would they come back if they didn’t? Some sort of radio contact would make him feel better. Until then, they had little choice but to continue. Which ones standing here won’t make it? He wondered.
Two hours later, Cowboy and Raoul returned. They had discovered multiple camel tracks behind them that crisscrossed over the tire tracks of the vehicles. Nolan wanted to know if the two could have been mistaken.
Could they have accidentally counted the tracks from the camels the Marines rode? Cowboy was adamant that the marks were not ones made by the eight camels of the convoy.
The water, food, and fuel containers hung from the sides of the camels like so many bumpers along the side of a ship. Most swung freely as the camels moved. Stapler had Cowboy and Raoul assign guides to each of the camels. With the exception of the lone camel that Stapler allowed Cowboy to keep and to ride, the other seven camels were fully loaded. They topped off their canteens and handed the remaining few plastic gallon containers of water to others among them to carry. Most had some sort of backpack and, after discarding nonessential items, the gallon container fit, freeing their hands to carry their weapons.
The Marines had an M-16 each and two or three hand grenades. The LT had a Navy forty-five along with his M-16. The riggers had ten civilian M-16s scattered among the more gun-knowledgeable of them. The two women riggers, Stapler discovered, had a small handgun each, carried in their pants pockets. Personally, he’d never carry a gun in his pants pocket — too hard to extract and too much danger of it going off.
Private Raoul Gonzales tied the leads of the camels together and then one to the bumper of the truck creating a line of small shades where they could sit out of the direct glare of the sun. The canvas on the back of the truck had been pulled out and stretched to where it covered the entire bed. Kellogg was sitting up and seemed fully recovered, cursing her Marines comrades who kidded her that she was just trying to snatch a few winks and using sun stroke as an excuse. Stapler noticed she was perspiring as he walked past her. She grinned and held her arms out, palms up. He waved her off and continued his inventory before returning to the lead humvee where Heinrich worked and Bearcat waited.
The radio hadn’t done them much good so far — might as well chuck it — but every person in the convoy looked to that radio as their only link to survival. Even water became second when the idea of leaving the radio was voiced by one of the riggers. Without the radio, they only had their limited-range bricks, and for anyone to hear any calls on the bricks, they needed to be within line of sight, which meant fifteen miles to the horizon. The LT had asked Heinrich to check the radio connections before they left, just to make sure everything was okay.
“It’s done,” Heinrich said, pulling his body out of the front seat of the humvee and sitting down on the clay. He wiped his hands on the cloth he carried tied to a belt loop.
“Have you tried it?” Bearcat Jordan asked.
Heinrich shook his head. “No, dat radio wilt work. I bet when life on it.”
“That is just what you are doing,” Stapler added.
Heinrich w
inked at the Marine. “Ah, Sergeant. You must smile more often. Et highlight your face very nicely.” Heinrich pulled his long-sleeved T-shirt up and wiped his face with it, exposing a muscular chest and an enviable six-pack accenting his waist.
“Either of you want to try the radio?” Bearcat asked. “I tried every fifteen minutes with no answer. Maybe one of you two will be luckier.” “You go, LT. You’re the communicator,” Stapler said.
Heinrich pushed himself off the ground and moved out of the way of Lieutenant Nolan, who slid into the small space on the shotgun side of the humvee. He checked the switches, flipped a toggle, and then pressed the Transmit button on the microphone.
“Base Butler, this is Marine One. How copy, over?”
He released the button, and static filled the speaker.
Nolan reached over and turned the volume knob up slightly so those outside could hear the static also.
He tried again. “Base Butler, this is Marine One. How copy, over?”
Again, static answered the challenge. Nolan turned several knobs, changing the bandwidth slightly and in creasing his transmission power to maximum. “I just realized that I didn’t have the transmission power to maximum.”
Stapler looked at Bearcat Jordan. “No, Sergeant. 1 had it at maximum when I was transmitting.”
“I turned it down when I was checking it. I didn’t want it going off accidentally mil when ear against it,” Heinrich said. He leaned forward, slightly bumping Stapler.
Stapler moved to the other side of Bearcat, so he could see what the LT was doing.
“Base Butler, this is Marine Convoy One. How copy, over?”
Static filled the air, then suddenly stopped for several seconds, and then came back on.
“Did you hear that?” shouted Nolan. He turned and looked at the three men. “Did you hear it?” “Hear what?” Bearcat asked.
“That moment of silence when the static stopped. That means someone was trying to respond.” Stapler thought the LT was grasping for straws. He and Bearcat exchanged a knowing glance between them.
Bearcat shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, stop it, you two.” Lieutenant Nolan pressed the Transmit button again. “Base Butler, this is Marine Convoy One. Do you read me? Over.”
Static emanated from the speaker. Nolan turned the speaker knob all the way up. “Base Butler, this is Marine Convoy One. Do you read me? Over.” He released the Transmit button.
“Marine Convoy One, this is Heavy Rider Two. 1 copy you three by five. Keep transmitting, and we shall close your unit.”
“It’s them. It’s them!” cried Nolan, chill bumps rushing up his spine. “It’s the goddamn Army.” Bearcat and Heinrich shouted the news to the others, who poured out of their shades, running to the humvee up front, crowding around the door, trying to hear.
“Heavy Rider Two, this is Marine Convoy One. Are we glad to hear you! We have forty-three souls. That includes eleven United States Marines. You should be able to land.
We are in the middle of a huge plain.”
“Marine Convoy One, sorry, but unable land. We are one Rivet Joint RC-135 aircraft escorted by four F-16 Falcon fighters. Sorry. Wish we could land and take you on.
Our job was to locate you and provide that information back to headquarters. Rest assured Army is working rescue.
Original rendezvous plans remain in effect.”
The cheering and smiles faded as the group realized this was not the CH-47 Chinooks headed their way to bring them out.
“Heavy Rider Two, this is Marine Convoy One. Can you relay to Base Butler that we arc four days out from rendezvous point and will not reach rescue point as originally scheduled.”
“Roger, Marine Convoy One. Can do, and are doing as we talk. We have you located now. Anything we can do for you?”
“Wait one.” Lieutenant Nolan transmitted.
He stuck his head out of the humvee. “Gunny, anything we need to ask them to do for us?” Stapler thought a minute, tugged on his ear, and then replied, “Yes, sir, LT. Ask them if they can do a quick reconnaissance around our position to make sure we don’t have company.” He hooked his thumb toward the professor.
“The professor thinks they are trailing us and letting the sun do their work for them before they rush us.”
Nolan nodded, lifted the microphone to his lips, and pushed the Transmit button. “Heavy Rider Two, can you reconnoiter our immediate vicinity for threat presence?”
The noise originated from the west, gradual at first, growing in intensity, drowning out the radio. Every head turned toward the sound, hands going up to shade eyes from the sun.
“There they are!” cried Karim, pointing toward the line of small hills to the west.
The two F-16 fighters grew in size until they blasted overhead at about five hundred feet, wiggling their wings.
The two fighters broke apart and climbed.
A cheer broke out from the crowd as they waved at the departing Air Force fighters. Tears flowed freely down the cheeks of most as they hugged each other. The Air Force presence could do little, but the mere sight sent a new wave of vitality surging through them.
“Heavy Rider Two, nice show,” said Lieutenant Nolan, a slight emotional quiver in his voice. Nolan cleared his throat, trying to ease the tightness before he spoke.
“Marine Convoy One, I have the escorts that just passed over you doing a wide sweep around you. If there is anything within fifty miles, we’ll know shortly. While we’re waiting, would you care to pass a situation report to us for relay?”
“We can do that, Heavy Rider Two.” For the next few minutes, Lieutenant Nolan passed a synopsis of their situation.
The loss of the truck, the number of people in the convoy divided into civilians and Marines, and his assessment of their chances. He told them briefly about the compound and the trek to the oasis. The battle for the oasis was even briefer, with him giving the impression that their mere presence sent the Algerians running.
“Marine, Heavy Rider. You have visitors about thirty to thirty-five miles behind you. Appear to be around one hundred to one hundred twenty, all on camels. Looks like a Bedouin tribe, a caravan, the pilot says. No soldiers or anything that looks like military. I think if you wait there, they may arrive within the next few hours and can give you a hand getting out.”
“Those are the ones who have been attacking us, Heavy Rider! They are not a harmless Bedouin tribe out for a nice trek in the desert!”
Several seconds passed before the Rivet Joint RC-135 responded. “Marine Convoy One, we just had our fighters pass directly overhead, and those natives just waved at them. No shooting. No indications they were anything but friendly. Maybe you’re wrong?”
Lieutenant Nolan leaned out of the humvee. “Did you hear that? Those goddamn zoomies have let a bunch of mineteenth-century natives fool them!” He leaned back in and the Transmit button.
“Heavy Rider, trust us on this. They are heading after us, not to help us but to kill us. Can you take them out?”
Nearly a minute passed before the officer on the Air Force four-engine reconnaissance aircraft responded. “No can do, Marine Convoy One. We have no indications they are hostile. Unless they fire on us or show us they are hostile, our hands are tied. Wait one.” That was the ball game, thought Stapler. If the Tauregs were thirty miles behind, then they would catch up to the convoy about the time they entered the wadi. Maybe once the convoy got in the wadi, they could hide from the natives.
Then, again, they hadn’t been successful yet in hiding from them. What was the difference going to be once they arrived inside the maze of wadis the professor says the Tauregs consider their native home? Those natives probably knew every nook and cranny ahead.
“Marine Convoy One, we have passed on your situation to Base Butler. They relay that they are doing what they can to reach you. They have your new position, the course you are moving, and your new estimate. They request you keep making calls every fifteen minutes, even if there
is no joy on making contact. Good luck, Marines.
This is Aerospace Expeditionary Force Six Eight departing the area. Wish we could stay longer, but we have to meet a series of tankers at predestined areas to stay aloft.
We will be in contact range for about another hour if you need us. Command Joint Task Force African Force wants you to know that they are doing everything they can to get you out of there.” Lieutenant Nolan the Transmit button. Shaking his head, he said, “Heavy Rider, you are making a mistake leaving that group of bandits — rebels — whatever you want to call them — alone. We are going to have to fight them.”
“Wish we could, Marine Convoy One, but our hands are tied. I think you are overreacting, but if I were in your place, I’d do the same. As long as we are within range and can do, we will keep the fighters rotating back for a look see on the caravan. If they do anything we can interpret as hostile, we will take them out. That’s all I can promise, Marines. I wish we could do more, but our hands are tied.
Good luck. Our prayers are with you. This is EAF Sixty eight, out.”
Lieutenant Nolan threw the microphone down on the driver’s seat. “Did you hear that? Did you hear that? They have the enemy in sight and refuse to attack them.” He pulled himself out of the humvee. Angrily, the LT spent several minutes discussing the parentage of the Air Force pilots who just flew away, leaving them to the mercy of the desert and the “goddamn rag heads who followed.
After listening several minutes, Stapler tossed his cigarette down and ground it into the clay. He gripped his M-16 tighter and lifted it to his chest. “It’s time, LT. We need to move. The wadi is ten more miles, and the sooner we start, the sooner we reach it.” He turned and walked back through the crowd, giving directions to Marines and civilians alike. Sitting around crying about what the Air Force could and couldn’t do wasn’t going to help their position.
This wasn’t the first time the United States Marine Corps had to depend on itself in a hostile situation. Why should he expect this to be any different?
Thirty minutes later, the convoy started again. The lead humvee in front was jammed with eight people. Stapler and Lieutenant Nolan walked behind it. Strung out behind them came the seven camels led by Gonzales. Sterling, Abercombie, Garfield, and Lerfervre walked alongside the animals. Cowboy Joe-Boy rode several hundred yards to the right with Private Catsup Kellogg behind him. She had recovered a little from the mild sunstroke but was still weak. Stapler had ordered her to the humvee, but no other Marines were riding in them, and she refused to be the only one, so he made her ride with Cowboy. The other humvee brought up the rear, it also jammed with eight people. The remaining twenty-five civilians and Marines walked between the two humvees. When they started, everyone bunched together, but within an hour, the spread turned into ones and groups of twos and threes as the convoy moved unsteadily forward toward the setting sun.
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