Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (29 page)

“Not somebody I'd want to fool with,” the navigator said.

“No,” Gold said.

Blount's strength and resourcefulness gave her the only anchor for
what little hope she maintained. But no matter how powerful, he was still human. Still vulnerable to bullets, toxins, thirst, hunger, and all the other ways a person could die in a desert combat environment.

For a few minutes no one said anything else. Gold appreciated the crew's concern and courtesy, but she knew what they were thinking: The odds looked bad and only worsened with time. The fliers turned their attention back to their instruments and charts.

“Look at that,” the copilot said. Pointed a gloved finger toward something on the ground.

The pilot leaned to his right, peered out the copilot's window.

“Shit, the forecast was right,” the pilot said.

Gold unbuckled her seat belt, stood to look. Miles to the south, along a distinct line, the desert turned to khaki-colored vapor. An invisible rope seemed to drag across the desert and lift the fine sands into the air, obscuring the roads and dunes. The scirocco winds again.

“Hope we get into Mitiga ahead of that,” the copilot said.

“Me, too,” the pilot said.

Gold didn't worry about her own safety; she'd heard Parson talk of making instrument landings through clouds of dust. But the dust storm would make it hard, if not impossible, for aircraft to continue searching for Blount and the others.

She turned away from the cockpit windows, descended the three steps to reach the cargo compartment. In the back of the airplane, Ongondo had gotten out of his seat, as well. He kneeled on the steel floor, speaking with the Tuaregs. The refugees chattered in excited tones, especially the boy who'd been in the fight. She wanted to know why they'd become so talkative, but as a professional interpreter she considered it bad form to interrupt in a moment like that.

But she could surmise a little just from the context: Now that the plane had safely departed Algeria, the Tuaregs had a story to tell.

A
n ocean of sand stretched before Blount, Fender, Grayson, and Escarra. Guided by his DAGR, Blount led the de facto squad north. The coordinates displayed on the device told him the terrorists had driven him and the other captives farther south than he'd realized. But his position almost didn't matter. He just wanted to get as far away as he could from where they'd been held, and to make contact with friendly forces as quickly as possible.

The hills and hummocks of sand made for slow going; the
SPEED
portion of the DAGR screen read
4 KPH
. Now that the sun had climbed high, it created mirages wherever the terrain lay flat: Silvery water glistened in sheets, only to evaporate when the men approached.

Water wasn't the problem, though. Grayson carried the CamelBak, and it still contained drinking water. Blount worried most about getting recaptured. Only a matter of time before Kassam returned to see his prize hostages had escaped. With trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles, Kassam and whatever henchmen he had left could catch up pretty quickly. Blount doubted he and his sleep-deprived, malnourished team would win the resulting firefight, especially with just the little bit of ammunition they'd scrounged. Best thing would be to get a helicopter ride out of here, so every few minutes Blount made a call on the PRC-148. So far, no answer. He decided to try it again, using the call sign he remembered from the comm card issued to him aboard the
Tarawa
. The ship and the original mission now seemed decades in the past.

“Any station, any station,” Blount transmitted. “This is Havoc Two Bravo.”

Nothing but hiss.

“Seems like they forgot about us,” Fender said.

“I'm sure that ain't the trouble,” Blount said. “We just need a plane to fly near enough to hear me on this thing.”

“I just can't believe we're out of there,” Grayson said. “God Almighty, Gunny, you kicked some ass.”

“All you boys did your part,” Blount said. “But now you gotta keep doing it. Keep your eyes open, and scan three hundred sixty degrees. If the dirtbags catch up with us, only hope is to see them first and get low.”

“Aye, Gunny,” Fender said.

A three-hundred-sixty-degree scan showed sun and blue horizon in most sectors but revealed a strange sight to the southeast. In that direction the sky darkened to the color of dried blood.

“What is that?” Grayson asked.

“Dust storm,” Blount said.

“God, I hope that doesn't keep a helo from getting to us,” Grayson said.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Escarra glanced back at the red sky, began mumbling in Spanish.

“Dios te salve, María,”
Escarra said.
“Llena eres de gracia
.
”
Escarra continued murmuring to himself as he walked.

“What are you saying?” Grayson asked.

Escarra stopped talking in Spanish. Looked at Grayson and said, “Is Hail Mary.”

“Ah,” Grayson said.

“That's good, bud,” Blount said. “We'll take all the help we can get.”

To Blount, a Hail Mary meant a long forward pass, but he'd heard of the Catholic prayer. Something about “pray for us now and in the hour of our death.” Blount wondered if “now” and “the hour of
our death” would turn out one and the same. Those dust clouds sure didn't look like a good sign. The
Tarawa
had steamed through a storm right before this mission, and now weird weather loomed again. Blount thought that if he were a superstitious man, he'd believe he'd passed through storms to the underworld, or maybe to another time.

Sure did seem like they'd come from the land of the dead. Blount had even brought back a two-hundred-year-old pistol in his pocket. He felt the weapon's lock rubbing against his leg. That would more than likely leave a sore spot, but Blount had no intention of ditching the flintlock. He kept it as a symbol of victory. Besides, it was still U.S. government property.

As the men walked, Blount looked them over to assess their condition. Everybody seemed reasonably strong, considering what they'd been through. But he doubted any of them had enough gas in the tank for a long battle if the enemy caught them again. As Blount regarded the men, he noticed a pouch on Grayson's rig: an Individual First-Aid Kit. Blount couldn't be sure, but it looked like his own.

“Hey, Grayson,” Blount said, “where'd you get that IFAK?”

“Found it under a chair just as we left. Sorry I didn't see it when you were working on that Russian guy.”

“That's all right. I don't think it would have helped him anyway. I think that IFAK's mine, though.”

“Sorry, Gunny. Here, let me give it back.” Grayson began to take the IFAK off his rig.

“No, keep it,” Blount said. “But look in it and see if you find any CAT tourniquets.”

Blount always carried his own extra tourniquets. He knew from bitter experience that if you got in a firefight or hit with an IED, you could never have too many.

Grayson unzipped the IFAK and looked inside. Poked through the contents.

“Yeah, Gunny. You got six.”

Grayson lifted a handful of the CATs, made of black webbing and Velcro, neatly folded and secured with rubber bands. Each included a plastic rod for use as a windlass to tighten the tourniquet. Each also bore a white tag marked
TIME
, for recording when the tourniquet was applied.

“Pass 'em out.”

Grayson held out a pair toward Blount.

“Nah,” Blount said. “Give 'em to everybody else. Six is enough for the three of you to put one on each arm. Y'all put 'em loose over your upper arms. If you get hit, you can tighten it right quick. Saves enough time to maybe save your life. We used to wear 'em like that on patrol in Iraq. If we hadn't been wearing MOPP suits, I'd have made everybody put on CATs when we launched off the ship.”

“Aye, Gunny.”

Grayson handed tourniquets to Fender and Escarra. The two young Marines slipped the CATs over their arms and showed Escarra how to don his own. The Spanish Legionnaire looked a little puzzled at first.

“Yeah, I know,” Fender said. “Seems pretty hard-core. But combat's hard-core, dude.”

“Gracias,”
Escarra said.

“Anybody need more water?” Grayson asked. He held up the tube from his CamelBak.

“Yeah, I'll take a sip,” Blount said. He put the tube in his mouth, took one long swallow. Fought the temptation to drink more.

As Blount handed the tube back to Grayson, Fender held up his hand.

“You hear that?” Fender asked.

Blount and the other men stopped walking. Listened. Sure enough, the low, continuous whoosh of a jet sounded in the distance. Blount shaded his eyes with his hand, saw nothing. Reached for his radio. The PRC-148 was a line-of-sight radio, and the line of sight
here in the Sahara stretched pretty far. Even farther when talking to airplanes.

“Any station,” he called, “Havoc Two Bravo, Mayday. Any station, do you read?”

Blount's idea of paradise took many forms. Maybe it would be something like his wedding day. Or perhaps the days his daughters were born. Or maybe that time during his childhood when he found a good fishing spot under a catalpa tree by a farm pond. The tree's leaves practically dripped with catalpa caterpillars. Young Blount fished all day with unlimited bait right over his head, not a single care on his mind.

But at the moment, heaven came as an answer on the radio. In a French accent.

“Havoc Two Bravo, Dagger One-Seven. Read you Lima Charlie. Please advise.”

Blount grinned at the others. Pressed his transmit button.

“Havoc Two Bravo requests emergency extraction for four personnel.” Blount read off his coordinates from his DAGR.

“Dagger One-Seven copies all. Very good to hear from you,
mon ami
. Will relay to search-and-rescue.”

“Roger that,” Blount replied. “Be advised we will keep walking on a northerly heading. Need to get some distance from hostiles.” Blount released his talk switch, waited for a response.

“Understood. Maintain a listening watch on this frequency.”

“Yes, sir,” Blount said. “What type aircraft are you?”

“Dagger is a flight of two Mirages. Ah, stand by for a closer look.”

At first Blount wondered what the pilot meant. But as the jet noise grew louder, he realized the French aviator intended a flyover. Not tactically necessary, but one heck of a morale boost for isolated personnel. Blount and his comrades craned their necks, gazed into the azure expanse. At first he saw nothing. But then Grayson pointed to the northeast and said, “There.”

Two specks moved in unison across the sky, locked into formation as if connected by an iron bar. When they came nearer, both took on the pointed shape of fighter planes. One began to descend; the other stayed high.

The descending jet grew larger, banked toward Blount's position. The engine noise rent the sky, filled the desert. In a steep bank angle, the Mirage's triangular form become more apparent, gray exhaust and heat waves trailing from the tailpipe.

Blount raised his arm, began to wave. Swung his hand in wide arcs. Grayson, Fender, and Escarra waved, too. The aircraft dropped to what would have been treetop height if there had been any trees. The jet blast rose to deafening levels, and the Mirage streaked low overhead with the finesse of a flying ax blade. Blount noted the weapons mounted on pylons, and the roundel of the French air force. The jet rocked its wings.

“Heavy metal, baby,” Fender shouted as the Mirage pulled up into a nearly vertical climb.

“Whoo-hoo!” Grayson yelled. “Find them fuckers and blow 'em up.”

The jet burned its way back up to altitude. The men stood silently for a few minutes and watched the Mirage join up with its wingman. The airplanes turned back to the north.

“Okay, boys,” Blount said. “This is real good, but don't let your guard down. Look at that dust storm back there.” Blount pointed behind him. The rust-colored mass on the horizon grew by the second. “That's gon' be on us pretty soon,” he continued. “I don't know if a helicopter can fly in that or not. This day is far from over.”

Blount checked his DAGR, tried to lead his team north on as straight a heading as possible. What seemed a simple task turned out to be harder than he expected. Land navigation usually involved setting a course, noting a landmark on that course, then moving toward the landmark. You'd count paces along the way to figure distance. Once you reached the building, tree, ditch, or boulder, you'd take
another reading, choose another landmark, and so on. Even in most desert environments you could find a bush or a gulley somewhere along your course.

But here, Blount found only ripples in the sand, each one indistinguishable from another. He'd lead the team a hundred paces and find himself ten degrees off his heading. Not necessarily a problem; he didn't expect to travel far enough on foot to make a difference to a helicopter. But he didn't want to get sloppy and start angling all over Creation. He glanced at the DAGR screen, noted the latest error.

“Let's head a few degrees to the right,” Blount said.

“Should we change direction to make it harder for the bad guys to track us down?” Fender asked.

“I don't think it would help,” Blount said. “If that dust storm covers our tracks, heading won't matter. And if the storm doesn't cover our tracks, they'll find us easy no matter what we do.”

“I wonder if they're coming for us already,” Grayson said.

“Wouldn't surprise me,” Blount said.

Blount knew even if Kassam could not pick up a trail, the terrorist leader could still find them if he had enough four-wheel-drive vehicles. Just send the trucks out from the hell house in ever-widening circles. Run down tired escapees on foot in no time.

The men trudged through the sand for another half hour. Blount's tactical vest began to chafe. The weight of the flintlock pistol in his pocket started to tug at uncomfortable angles. He shifted his rifle, rested the M16 in the crook of his elbow. Listened closely for the sound of a helo, but heard only breeze, footsteps, and the hiss of his radio. How long could it take to launch a chopper? If it didn't get here pretty soon, that storm might make a rescue impossible.

Now the reddish-brown haze covered half the sky. Blount felt the wind rising. Wisps of fine sand were already lifting from underfoot and ghosting across the ground.

In Iraq and Afghanistan, he'd seen dust storms take different forms. Sometimes gales flung grit like a sandblaster and made
walking—let alone flying—impossible. Other times dust hung in the air like fog, lifted by distant winds long played out. You almost didn't notice the dust except for the discolored sky. And when you cleaned your face with a baby wipe, the wipe came away muddy. Blount had heard pilots say landing in that stuff depended on how thick it was and how low it hung.

The storm's approach made Blount impatient. He decided to try a radio call, maybe get an update.

“Dagger One-Seven, Havoc Two Bravo,” he transmitted. “You still up?”

No answer.

“Any station, Havoc Two Bravo.”

Still nothing.

With only static on the radio, Blount could imagine himself and his men marooned on a waterless planet, pleas for help bouncing through an ionosphere absent of any other human voice. Because he'd made contact with the Mirage, he knew someone would come for them sooner or later. But the vastness of the desert made his team seem utterly, completely alone.

Apparently the others were thinking the same thing.

“Sure would suck to get out of there and then just die of thirst out here,” Fender said. “Dry up and leave nothing but bones.”

“Why haven't they got to us yet?” Grayson asked.

“Quit talking like that,” Blount ordered. “You're on patrol. Act like it.” Blount realized he was speaking to himself as much as the others.