The firing of the M-16s and the ancient weapons opposing them drowned out the normal level of conversation.
Karim passed two more cartridges to Garfield and pointed to the rigger. “Dead,” he said. Karim lifted the idle M-16 lying to the side, recalling what Stapler had told him. “He ain’t gonna need this, and they’ve pissed me off now.”
Garfield fired a couple of bursts over the top of his position and heard the magazine click on empty. He pulled the magazine from his weapon and automatically shoved in a full one.
Karim pulled himself back to the magazine box. He sat down, his back against the back wheel, waiting for the next call. The amount of ammunition they were firing, they would run out soon. Probably minutes. He took his handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound. The salt soaked into the cloth burned the open wound. He hefted the lightweight M-16, leaned around the side of the humvee, and began firing. Just like Baltimore on a Saturday night, he thought.
“Help me up. Sterling,” Stapler said.
“Gunny, you can’t stand. Your legs won’t hold you.”
The firing increased in tempo. Stapler turned his head to the right. Four Tauregs, their robes flapping like black flags, jumped into the encampment. The huge five millimeter plus bullets of multiple M-16s hitting the attackers created a macabre dance of death as the bodies rocked with each impact. So far, they had protected the interior lines of communications … Now why did he say that?
His mind seemed to jump from one thought to the next.
He needed to move; clear his mind.
“Help me up. Sterling, or neither of us will be around for me to recover.” Stapler spat another mouthful of blood out. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and surprised himself to find a long streak of blood along it.
He looked up at Sterling. “How bad is it?” Stapler asked, lying back on the sand, all thoughts of standing up gone, “I already told you, Gunny. You gonna live. You got a punctured lung, but. the bullet went clean through. If you don’t get infection — and where in the hell would you get infection in the middle of the desert — then you gonna live.”
Sterling glanced back toward the rear of the camp. He leaned toward Stapler. “This is going to hurt, Gunnery Sergeant, but I am going to pull you over to the boulders and brace you up against them. The wound is in the lower part of the lung. Bracing you up should keep the blood from flooding the upper part … or at least slow it down.”
Stapler coughed. “You have such a great bedside manner, Sterling.”
Sterling crawled behind Stapler and put his hands under Stapler’s arms. “You ready?” “Yeah,” Stapler said.
The pain caused dancing spots of whiteness and stars to cross his vision. Involuntarily, Stapler closed his eyes.
Pain sent waves of white sheets across his eyes. He held his breath for several seconds against the mind-numbing pain. Sterling pulled and tugged him the few feet to the boulders.
“Gunny, you ready for the difficult part?”
“That wasn’t it?”
“Christ!” Sterling shouted, rolled to the side, and brought his M-16 up. He fired a three-shot burst at another Taureg who had jumped the perimeter.
“Hurry, Sterling, get me up!” Stapler gasped through the pain.
A, few seconds later, with a lot of pain and several quick seconds of unconsciousness, Stapler found himself propped against the huge boulder behind him. He felt guilty over the pain of his wound when he thought of the gut-shot Cowboy only a few feet away behind them. The young Marine had yet to regain consciousness since Stapler carried him in, and he asked about him. Sterling leaned down and whispered that the Texan was dying. He guessed he should be grateful for the pain because it showed he was still alive.
“Sterling!” Lieutenant Nolan shouted. “Wounded here.” The LT was pointing to a nearby oil rigger who was holding his arm.
“Gunny, I’m gone. You’ll be all right as long as those pressure bandages stay in place. Don’t move too much, and they’ll stay in place. It’s a serious wound but not a deadly one. At least, it ain’t yet,” Sterling said, handing Stapler his M-16. The Marine quickly checked the safety to make sure it was off. “It’s on burst, Gunny. And, now, you don’t shoot me, okay?” He patted Stapler twice on the arm, and he was gone, heading toward the front. Stapler tried to grin at the thought. He was only a few feet away from the front himself.
Sterling ran past a rigger just as a round penetrated the man’s head, splattering gray matter and blood over Sterling.
Stapler pulled his M-16 to his lap and pointed the weapon toward the front. Behind him, he heard the noise of the unarmed civilians and farther to the rear the frightening bellows of the camels fighting their tethers to escape the chaos in front.
From this vantage point, he watched their small group of defenders fighting against the tide of the main body ebbing closer and closer to the edge of the perimeter. More than a hundred, he estimated. Guess they flew in more last night, he thought with morbid humor at the idea of the Saharan natives having wings to fly like a huge flock of human buzzards to feed on American roadkill.
He lifted his M-16 toward Corporal Heights’s position.
A wave of Tauregs swarmed up the slight incline toward the five men occupying that strategic area. Catsup Kellogg shifted her weapon, bringing it to bear on the charging wave. Bearcat rose to one knee, exposing himself above the small rock mound that protected them. Little puffs of dirt jumped into the air around the oil rigger supervisor, as it seemed hundreds of bullets fired at the man missed. Kellogg reached up, grabbed Bearcat’s belt, and jerked the off-balance supervisor back into the foxhole.
Another shadow broke the sun from Stapler’s face.
Above him stood a screaming, wide-eyed Taureg with his gun pointed at Stapler. He tried to bring his gun around even as he watched the native fumble for the trigger.
A foot appeared to the side of his vision, swinging through the air to connect with the Taureg’s face. Teeth flew out of the native’s mouth as the attacker, his eyes rolled up, fell away, the ancient rifle falling on top of Stapler’s legs.
Miss. Sheila Anne Forester jerked the native’s gun up and tossed it aside. “Gunnery Sergeant! What the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to be protecting me; not me, you! Give me that damn gun!” She jerked the gun from Stapler’s fingers.
“Give me my gun back! What the hell do you think you are doing?” he asked weakly.
“Saving your life, old man.” Her eyes roamed over the M-16. “How does this thing work?” she asked, turning it back and forth.
He raised his hand, and she handed it back to him, shaking her head.
The wave broke. All along the perimeter the Tauregs were breaking off and running toward the other side of the wadi. Sterling leaped over the boulder, ripped out a hypodermic needle, and jammed it into Stapler’s leg.
“Shot of morphine, Gunny. It’ll ease the pain a little.”
Sterling rose and ran toward the perimeter defense line, not waiting for Stapler to reply.
Movement at the top of the path leading down to the floor of the wadi drew Stapler’s attention. As he watched, camels with riders began to congregate at the top, lining up abreast of each other. First a few, then ten, twenty, and now he estimated about thirty. He couldn’t hear the shouts, but he knew they were shouting up there from the way they were waving their rifles up and down. Building up their courage for an attack.
The firing slacked off as Lieutenant Nolan shouted, “Cease fire, cease fire!”
White steam curled from the engines of the humvees, and long streaks of oil ran out beneath the vehicles. They wouldn’t be driving out of here, thought Stapler. He fought against a wave of despair that threatened to rush over him. He thought of his wife, daughter and son and how they would feel when word reached them of his death. If word ever reached them. With the exception of the Air Force bunch that overflew them yesterday, no one had any idea where they were. They would become like so many other expeditions that ven
tured into the Sahara desert to disappear and never be heard of again. Several things washed through Stapler’s thoughts as he watched the growing camel calvary at the top of the trail. He didn’t want to die, but who does? He wished he had paid more attention to Carol. It bothered him to think of how his shy Carol would react to the reporters who would swarm over her when the loss of this expedition became apparent. He wished he had made more arrangements for supporting her after he died. The Marines would watch after her for a while, but life moves on. The United States government would give her some, nice papers, a flag, and maybe even an award for his death. Then they would slip her a check, a small pension, and fight her every inch of the way on wanting free medical.
Lieutenant Nolan ran over to Stapler. “Gunny, how are you feeling?”
“Like shit, LT,” Stapler said softly, nodding toward the top of the path. “It don’t look too good, does it?”
Nolan shook his head. “Gunny, we are into the reserve cartridges already. I just counted the remaining ones in the crate — ten. We used what we had and have dispersed forty of the cartridges out. We have only two grenades left.” “LT, see those camels up there?” Stapler asked, nodding toward the top of the trail.
Nolan shielded his eyes and looked to where Stapler pointed. “Yeah. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably, LT. When those camels start down here, those others we just turned back will attack also. Where Heights, Jones, and Kellogg are dug in seems to be our weakest point. It’s. broadest point for those camels to get in here. If they get inside the perimeter, then we’re gone.”
Sterling, crouched over, came running up. “LT, Gunny, the rigger’s dead. Bullet pierced his temporal lobe and stayed inside. Scrambled brains. Abercombie took a bullet in the left arm; Kellogg has a scratch where, I think, a ricochet caught her on its way by. Gonzales is wounded but refuses to move away from between the humvees so I can treat him. He can talk, so I don’t think it is too serious.” “That it?” Lieutenant Nolan asked.
Sterling hung his head. “No, sir. I wish it was. Garfield is dead. Don’t know when. Must have been instant because Lerfervre and the two riggers with them didn’t even realize Garfield had been hit until the fighting was over. Sorry. 1 can pull his body back behind the boulders.”
Lieutenant Nolan nodded. “All right.”
“No,” Stapler said. “Leave him where he is. He’s dead, but the enemy don’t know that. It’s one more target for them to shoot and one less bullet shot at the living when they do it.”
The oodalooping war cry of the Tauregs escalated, echoing off the walls of the wadi. Within the noise was the galloping sound of camels as the native calvary charged down the trail.
“Good luck, LT,” Stapler said. “Sterling, get behind the boulders and take care of any who get inside the perimeters.”
Stapler looked across the field of battle and saw the native equivalent to infantry running toward them. He was a little impressed on how illiterate Bedouins had managed to synchronize their attack. From this vantage point, he estimated the two attacking forces would reach the perimeter about the same time. As expected, the camels were veering toward the defensive positions of Heights and Kellogg.
“Hold you fire! Hold your fire!” Lieutenant Nolan shouted. “Wait! Wait!”
Stapler grinned. The LT had turned into a good warrior — lousy taste in women — but a good warrior. He turned his M-16 in his lap and saw the safety was still off.
He would never have done that before … It was second nature to him to flip the safety on when he finished firing.
“Prop me up,” he said to Sheila Anne Forester.
She reached behind Stapler and pushed him farther up into a sitting position. Then she scrambled behind him and braced her back against his with her feet against the bolder to hold him upright.
“Don’t get yourself shot while I am doing this, Gunny.
It’ll piss me the hell off.”
He raised the M-16 and pointed it toward the charging calvary. Holding his fire, waiting for the LT 10 give the word. The LT stood in the center of the perimeter, small bursts of sand rising around the young officer as bullets missed the easy target, hitting the ground around him.
The LT was offering himself as a target so the limited firepower of the Marines and riggers dug in around the perimeter would have less receiving fire.
Kellogg rose on one knee, pulled the pin on one of the two remaining grenades, and heaved it overhand toward the charging Taureg infantry. The explosion blew several into the air and caused those behind them to hesitate.
Bearcat’s M-16 blazed through the staggering line.
An explosion on the other side drew his attention as Lerfervre hurled his last grenade against the charging natives, stopping the charge momentarily on that side.
There were only seconds until the attackers regrouped and charged the perimeter. He heard the click of an empty rifle and saw Abercombie shift his stance, positioning his knees so that when the moment came, the force of his body would shove his bayonet up and through the enemy.
The galloping sound changed as the camels got nearer, almost a whup whup whup tempo. Reminded Stapler of helicopters. He lifted his M-16 and fired a short burst across the top of the second humvee, killing two Tauregs who had appeared there. The camels were less than a hundred yards away, most of the screaming riders waving swords while the others fired their rifles.
The ground exploded in front of the enemy calvary as missile after missile hit the ground, blowing camels and Tauregs into the air. Thousands of puffs of sand and rocks filled the air in front of the charging infantry as thirty millimeter cannon shells whipped through the horde.
“We don’t have thirty-millimeters or missiles,” Stapler said aloud.
“What’s going on. Gunny?” Sheila asked. “You’re one heavy bugger, you know.”
Over the top of the cliff behind the embattled Marines and riggers, eight United States Army Apache helicopters erupted into the valley, filling the enclosed space with death. The few riders who survived the initial attack turned their camels and fled for their lives up the trail, away from the valley. The Tauregs afoot ran screaming up the trail as four of the Apache helicopters dove and blasted the enemy like hornets from a disturbed nest, raining death and destruction. About fifty Tauregs, unable to escape, took position three hundred yards away against the farther side of the wadi. They fired their rifles ineffectively against the Apache helicopters, which wove and dodged as they blasted the cliff side, sending cascades of rocks to fall onto the Tauregs.
As if cued, the four Apaches pulled away from the stranded Tauregs and took off up the trail in pursuit of the other Apache combat helicopters that were chasing the camel calvary.
Behind the Apaches, six CH-47 helicopters rushed up an dover the top of the cliff. Two of the helicopters combat landed — in fast, landed hard, slam dropped the gate— to the west” of the Marines. United States Army Rangers rushed out, conducting an immediate attack against the remaining Tauregs in the valley. The helicopters accelerated back into the air and disappeared over the rim, leaving the battle to their riders.
Cheers erupted from the Marines and riggers as they stood and waved the soldiers on. In a few minutes, the Rangers rode over the lose perimeter the undisciplined natives arranged. The gunfire slacked as one after the other the Tauregs threw their arms into the air, surrendering.
The battle was over. The Ranger force stood in a circle with the prisoners in the center.
Lieutenant Nolan walked over to Stapler. “Gunny, looks as if miracles do happen.”
Stapler shut his eyes to keep the moisture from leaking out. “Let’s hope it ain’t a mirage. Lieutenant.” He reached out and touched the LT’s arm. Blood came away on his hand.
“What’s this, LT?”
“Just a scratch, Gunny.”
Stapler surveyed the young officer. Lieutenant Nolan’s cammies were torn in several places where bullets had grazed the man. He counted th
ree on the left pants leg and several on the right. Ribbons of cloth hung from the officer’s shirt where bullets had ripped through him.
Blood stained every place where bullet after bullet had nicked his skin.
“You are one lucky mother, LT.”
“Are you two done? I’m getting tired in this position.” Sheila Anne complained.
Lieutenant Nolan helped her move and eased Stapler down to the ground. White wisps of color decorated Stapler’s vision as pain ripped through his body.
“Now, don’t go and pass out on me, Gunny,”’ Nolan said.
A tall soldier, followed by three more, advanced toward the encampment. The Army officer reached behind him to his RTO and said something. Stapler turned his head slightly so he could watch the soldiers. The RTO spoke into his radio. A minute later, the four CH-47s reappeared, hovering over the cliff before settling gently into the valley. They touched down about the time the tall gentleman stepped across the foxhole where Garfield had died.
The darkened eagle of a full colonel became visible when the man raised his head and looked around the camp.
“Colonel, I am Lieutenant Nolan. United States Marine Corps,” Nolan said, saluting the Army officer.
The Ranger colonel looked at the young Marine officer, reached out, and touched him. He turned to one of the officers with him. “Chuck, get the medics up here ASAP.” He then returned Nolan’s salute. “Lieutenant, Colonel Dusty Cooper, United States Army Rangers.
Seems we arrived just in time.”
Army Rangers filtered into the camp. A medic rushed over to Stapler and asked questions as he checked the dressing. Stapler ignored the man. How in the hell does he think 1 feel? He was more interested in listening to what the colonel was saying. He wanted to know how in the hell they got helicopters this far and how in the hell were they going to get them back. The Army didn’t have the legs.
“Lieutenant, good idea to leave your radio keyed. If you hadn’t we never would have located you as fast as we did. I can’t tell you how the sounds of your fighting echoing over the airwaves affected every one of us.”
Tomcat Page 30