The Red Horseman (43 page)

Still a flicker.

Since there was nothing else to do, she cradled him
in her arms and hugged him.

How long Jack Yocke lay in the sandy dirt
he didn’t know. The noise of the helicopters and the
explosions and concussions that reached him through the earth
finally subsided, so he levered himself from the ground and
began walking. He walked until the exhaustion
hit him, then he sat down in the sand beside a
runway. He was sitting there unable to summon the
energy to move when he heard the crunch of a boot in
the sand.

Yocke grabbed his weapon and ran his fingers over
the action, trying to brush off the sand.

“Hey, shipmate! What’re you doing out here?”

“Uh Relief flooded Yocke and he tried
to collect his thoughts. He gestured toward the fence,
back there somewhere behind him. “His chute
didn’t open. Murphy.

His name was Murphy.”

The man came over for a look.

“You’re one of the SEAL’S, right?”

“No, but I jumped with them.”

“Better get over to the hangar. We’re setting
up a perimeter along the fence.”

“There’s mines on the other side.”

“You came down in town?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How bad are you hurt? You got a lot of
blood on you.”

“Most of it isn’t mine.”

“Medic over by the hangar. Move along now,
buddy.”

“Where?”

The sailor pointed.

“Thanks.”

Yocke placed his weapon in the crook of his arm
and began walking. He had gone about ten paces when
the man behind him called, “Better move it on out,
shipmate, because the main wave of Blackhawks are
overdue.

They’re going to land right here. Fact is, I can
hear ‘em now.”

In spite of his exhaustion and all the gear he was
still wearing, Jack Yocke dutifully broke into a
trot. When he too heard the swelling whine of the
oncoming engines his gait became a run.

Yocke paused by the door of the hangar and watched
four Blackhawks settle in and disgorge more
troops. The men came pouring out just before the wheels
hit the runway, then the choppers were gone in a blast
of rotor wash and noise. Choppers with understung
artillery pieces were next. When the slings were
released, these machines also kissed the earth and more men
came out running, then they were gone.

The choppers brought machine guns, ammo,
artillery, antitank weapons, corn gear, and
men, many men. By the time the fourth wave came in, the
artillery pieces from the first wave were banging off
rounds toward the east.

Above him three huge choppers materialized in
the darkness-Sky Cranes, with pallets under their
bellies.

Jack Yocke turned his back and went through the
hangar door.

The first things he saw inside were the missiles.
The long, white pointed cylinders still wore red stars
on their flanks.

He stood for sever-at seconds staring before he
saw the warheads-yes, those things were warheads-sitting
on wooden forklift flats. He began to count.

Thirty-two of them. And missiles sporting red
stars.

And against the far wall, a missile on another
truck, but this one was different-it had Arabic
script on the side near the nose and sported a
black, white and red flag. A Scud!

In front of the Scud launcher stood a row of
Iraqis with their hands up.

Several SEAL’S and U.s. soldiers guarded
them.

He was still standing there inspecting the warheads, taking
it all in, when a group of people came trotting through the
door with Captain Collins in the lead. Yocke
recognized the British soldier, Jocko West,
who was carrying a box of something. Another of the men was
Rheinhart.

West and Rheinhart immediately opened and began
unpacking the box they had slung between them. Jack
stpLyed behind Collins and watched as the muffled
noise of war thudded through the hangar.

“The hot stuff is still in these warheads,”
Collins said to Colonel Galvano, who
was busy with a radiation counter.

“There is much background radiation, Comandante.”

“I’ll bet these idiots didn’t even hose
down these weapons when they brought them here,” Jocko
West muttered, then added, “Let’s open the hangar
doors and start loading these things.”

Yocke wandered over to look at the prisoners.
Most of them were Iraqis, but several were
Russians. They didn’t look happy. One of the
Russians was trying to talk to an American
soldier in English-

“I go, da? With you? You take us?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Boris.”

“Seen Admiral Grafton, soldier?”
Yocke asked.

“He’s in one of those offices behind the
missiles,” the soldier said.

Yocke thanked him and walked in the indicated
direction.

One of the office doors was open. Yocke stepped
in.

“Didn’t fit. They’re too big,” Spiro
Dalworth was telling Jake Grafton.

Three Russians sat in chairs. “They cannot be
made to fit without completely altering the
structure of the missile.” More Russian.

“Hussein shot two of our men.

Shot with a pistol, one bullet each. In the
head. He told us we would make the warheads
fit.”

“Are these all the warheads and missiles? Have the
Iraqis taken any of the warheads anywhere else?”
Jake asked this question and Dalworth spewed it out in
Russian.

“Nyet. I I “All the weapons are here.”

Toad moved over beside Yocke. “You look like
one of Dracula’s afternoon snacks,” Toad
whispered. “If all that blood is yours you must be a
couple quarts low.”

Jack Yocke just shook his head. “What’s
happening?”

“It was screwed up from the beginning,” Toad
muttered” “The warheads are out of bigger, heavier
Soviet missiles.

Saddam wanted them installed in the Scuds but they
wouldn’t fit.

World-class problem solver that he is, he
wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“So he shot two Russians?”

“To motivate the others. Terrific
leadership technique, huh?”

“How about the missiles they have sitting out there?

Why didn’t he roll them out and tell the world
to kiss its ass good-bye?”

Toad leaned closer to Yocke’s ear. “Those
missiles don’t have any guidance systems. Oh,
the warheads are there, the fuel and all the rest of it.
But without guidance systems .

And lack Yocke nodded. Russia, the land where
nothing works, where shortages are endemic. It was
sort of funny, really. Saddam, The Awesome,
makes a sharp deal and the Russians give him the
shaft.

“Can I print this?”

“That’s up to the admiral.”

“This whole … thing, a goddamn fuck-up?”

“Sometimes the best-laid plans . .

A half-million Russians dead, another
half-million or million or two million
doomed, Americans dying outside, Iraqis …
all because some Russian politicians
desperately needed money and Saddam Hussein
wants to be the Arab Stalin!

And he himself had just killed two men. So he could
go on breathing and write the big stories
… about how tucked up the world is!

Yocke walked over to a corner and plopped
down. Suddenly he had a raging thirst. He got
out his canteen and took a long drink, then another.
He was nursing the water and listening to the
translators when the first television crew arrived.
The camera man was dragging the end of a cable, which went
out the door. Another man set up some lights.

“Can we film in here?” the reporter asked
Grafton.

“Have right at it,” the admiral said, and got out of
his chair.

“Interview these Russians.” Jake gestured
at Toad.

The two of them left the room together.

There was a massive steel beam that formed an
angle with one of the upright supports on the wall.
Staring at it and listening to the CNN reporter’s
breathless delivery into the camera, Jack Yocke
got an idea.

He removed the magazine from his weapon. Then he
wedged the silencer and barrel of the piece into the
junction of the beam and angular support. Now he
pulled with all his might. He paused, braced his
feet, then put his weight into it. The
barrel bent.

With sweat popping on his forehead he made a
supreme effort. The bend got bigger. When the
barrel had bent about thirty degrees the stock
shattered. Yocke removed the remains of the
submachine gun from the joint, inspected it, then
tossed it on the floor.

Everyone was watching the television reporter
interview the Russian technicians.

Jack Yocke wandered out of the room with his hands in
his pockets, lost in thought.

The air base was secure. For the moment.
Approximately a hundred casualties, about
thirty of them fatal. The 101/ Airborne
assault commander wanted to be gone in three hours,
at least an hour before he estimated that the Iraqis
could put together an armored assault.

Although he had real-time communications via
satellite with headquarters in Arabia and thought he
had the air power available to stop any conceivable
Iraqi military effort, he didn’t want
to take any more chances or casualties than he had
to.

Jake Grafton listened to the report and nodded.
He had no questions.

The little knot of officers stood in one corner of the
hangar watching technicians load the warheads
onto pallets with forklifts. Through the open doors
came the whine of helicopter engines at idle and the
pulsating thud of turning rotors. This noise almost
drowned out the distant bark of artillery, which was shelling
known remnants of Iraqi forces to prevent their
concentration. Almost drowned it out, but not quite.

Someone handed Jake Grafton a paper cup
full of coffee.

Beside him someone else lit a cigarette.

“Can you spare the rest of that pack of
cigarettes?”

“Sure, Admiral.”

“And the lighter.”

The staff officer handed it over. “I didn’t know
you smoked, sir.”

“I don’t.”

As he walked across the hangar Jake saw
Jack Yocke standing with his hands in his pockets.
He looked tired and pensive, the flesh of his face
tightly drawn across the bones. “You okay?”
Jake asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come with me,” Jake said and walked
on.

“I’ve seen enough,” Yocke told the
admiral’s back. Jake Grafton acted like he
hadn’t heard. Yocke quickened his pace to catch up.
“I’ve had enough.”

The admiral didn’t even look at him. “Who
hasn’t?” he muttered.

The marine guard outside the door of the room where
General Yakolev and Marshal Mikhailov were being
held saluted Jake as he approached. Rita
Moravia was standing beside him, and she also saluted.

“Are you injured?” Jake Grafton asked.
She had blood on the front of her flight suit.

“No, sir. We arrived fifteen minutes
ago. Our pilot was killed by small-arms fire.”

“Is the machine airworthy?”

“I think so, sir. We took a couple of other
hits, but nothing vital.

They’re refueling now from a bladder that one of the
Sky Crane’s brought in. We’ll be ready
to leave in another fifteen minutes or so.”

“Fine. Have the Russians had anything to say?”

“No, sir. Lieutenant Dalworth is
inside with them now, just in case.”

Jake nodded and opened the door. Jack
Yocke followed him into the room.

Dalworth stood up. “Thank you, Lieu
tenant. Let me have a few minutes alone with these
gentlemen.”

“Yessir.”

When the door closed behind Dalworth, Jake
sat down at the table across from Yakolev and passed
him the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.

Yocke took a chair in a corner.

“A last cigarette, Admiral?” Nicolai
Yakolev muttered.

He took one and offered the pack to Mikhailov,
who also stuck one in his mouth.

“Perhaps. We’ll get to that.”

“At least these aren’t Russian cigarettes.”

Yakolev glanced at Yocke, who was getting out
his notebook. Mikhailov concentrated on
savoring his cigarette and ignored Jake. He
looked exhausted, shrunken, the lines around his eyes
and mouth now deeply cut slashes. He looked
old. The marshal didn’t speak English, Jake
remembered.

“Who is he?” Yakolev inclined his head an
eighth of an inch at Yocke.

“A reporter.”

“A reporter?”

“That’s right, His specialty is news that isn’t
fit to print.”

Yakolev closed his eyes. He took an
experimental drag on the cigarette, sucked the
smoke deep into his lungs, then exhaled through his
nose.

“So explain to me, General,” Jake said, “how
the hell you got yourself into this fucking mess.”

“You want the history of Russia in the
twentieth century? For an American newspaper?
Will this be deep background or a Sunday
think-piece?”

“Just curious.”

“Another philosopher,” Yakolev said
heavily. “I give you some good advice,
Admiral. While you wear that uniform you cannot afford
to be a philosopher, to ponder the nuances of good and
evil. You do the best for your country that you can and live
or die with the results. That’s what the uniform
means.”

“Blowing up a reactor? Poisoning hundreds
of thousands of your own countrymen? You did that for your
country?”

Yakolev smoked the first cigarette in
silence, then lit another off the butt of the first one and
puffed several times to ensure it was lit.

Under his heavy eyebrows his eyes scanned Jake
Grafton’s face carefully.

“Russia is disintegrating,” the Russian
general said finally. “Very soon it will be like
Somalia, without government, without law, without
civilization, without food for its people. We are not
talking about a return to the Dark Ages,
Admiral, but a return to the Stone Age. Roving
bands of armed thugs, mass starvation, epidemics, a
complete breakdown of the ” social order-to
survive, future Russians will become
vicious, starving rats fighting on the dung heap.”

Yakolev glanced at Mikhailov, then
continued. “Already it has begun in the countryside, in
the republics, in little towns in Russia that your
news media does not cover, on the farms where there
is no one to see the babies and old people starve, no
one to watch or care as people die of pneumonia and
tuberculosis. No agriculture, no food,
no fuel, no transportation, no medical care,
no electricity, no one to protect those who cannot
protect themselves, violence leading to ethnic warfare,
feuds building toward genocide-it is here
now!

“In Moscow the ministries are corrupt from
top to bottom. A small number of bureaucrats
trade in dollars and live well while the rest of
Russia-the rest of the Soviet Union-sinks
deeper and deeper into the morass of starvation. This is
what the future looks like when this grand scheme you
call civilization collapses.”

He shifted his weight in his chair. Mikhailov
said something, to which Yakolev gave a short reply.
Then he turned his attention back to Jake.

“You Americans, with your television eyes. You
look at Yeltsin and expect him to create
miracles with his mouth! Those political swine-hot
air is all they are good for-was

Yakolev leaned forward and reached for another
cigarette. “That is why.”

In the silence that followed, the sounds of a
helicopter going overhead penetrated the room,
followed by distant explosions.

“Do you have any regrets?” Jake Grafton
asked when it became obvious Yakolev felt his
explanation was sufficient.

“Regrets?” Yakolev said the word bitterly.
“Oh, yes!”

His head bobbed. “I wish the God the Communists
swore did not exist had given this stupid sack of
shit sitting beside me some balls. If he had had
some balls we would have shot Yeltsin. We would have
thrown the selfish swine out of the Congress of People’s
Deputies. We would have gone through the ministries and
shot every corrupt bastard that we could lay hands on.
We would have hunted down the thugs terrorizing the
countryside and slaughtered them like rabbits. Then we
would have made the farmers grow food and the trains run
and people would have had food to eat.

Regrets? To watch your country die while the
politicians argue and the cowards wring their hands?
Yes, Admiral, I have regrets.”

“Why didn’t you shoot him first?”

“That is what I should have done.” Yakolev leaned
back in his chair and rubbed his face. “Ahh, I
am old and tired.

I have lived too long. I have seen too much. I
am ready to die.”

“The world is going to hell, so you played God.”

“You Americans have a phrase that seems a
perfect reply to sanctimonious comments like that:
fuck you.”

“You won’t get off that easy,” Jake
Grafton said. His voice had an edge to it.
“Russia is in the mess it’s in because of people like you,
because czars and dictators and administrators use
pens to authorize murder. ‘It had to be done.”
‘I had to do it.” ‘I am responsible and I know the
way things have to be, so they have to die!”

“You Commie messiahs think your people are pigs.
For them you have the profoundest contempt. They are too
ignorant, too stupid, too blind to see what’s
good for them, so they must be taken care of by wise men like
you. You feed, clothe, and house them, keep them warm
in the winter, and slaughter them when necessary. All for their
own good. It’s just too goddamn bad they don’t
understand how wonder u it is that learned, wise,
responsible men like you are willing to get their hands
dirty running the hog farm.”

Jake Grafton leaned forward in his chair.
“What if you’re wrong?”

“We weren’t wrong.”

“Don’t give me that shit!” Grafton roared.
“Lenin was wrong, Stalin was wrong, you’re wrong!
I’m sick to death of you self-anointed messiahs
willing to murder half the people on earth to save the other
half, the half you’re in.

You make me want to vomit!”

Yakolev said nothing, merely reached for another
cigarette.

“We have another one out there”-Jake pointed toward
the hangar bay–ready to slaughter everyone alive
who doesn’t agree with him. Now I tell you
this–it’s time for 0 of us little people to take a page from the
book of you prophets of doom and damnation.” He
stared at Yakolev.

The Russian sneered. “So you brought two
Russian villains to Iraq to parade in front of
your cameras. The folks at home can see the
dirty devils on CNN, prisoners of the
victorious, virtuous Americans.”

“No. I brought you here to help me solve a
problem. I need your help.”

“Help?” Yakolev laughed, a dry, vicious
bark.

“As one soldier to another.”

The laughter died. Nicolai Yakolev’s
face twisted again.

“You tell me I have no honor, then you appeal
to it.” He spit on the table, in Jake’s
direction. “I am not a coward!

I am not afraid of death. I do not fear a
bullet.”

“I know that,” Jake said gently.

“I have two sons and a daughter. They have children.

“A trial . .

“When?”

“You’ll know when the time comes.”

Yakolev glanced again at Jack Yocke, then
shrugged.

“I’ll think about it. For you personally I would do
nothing.”

Jake Grafton rose from the chair and started for the
door.

“Come on, Jack.”

Out in the hangar bay Yocke wanted to know,
“What was that all about?”

“About doing the right thing, for a change.”

MEMEL

“Like what?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

The room had a table in it about eight feet long.
And chairs. At one end of the table sat Saddain
Hussein, who glowered at Jake Grafton and
Jack Yocke when they came in. He roared
something in Arabic. The translator said to Jake,
“He wants to know if you are in charge, sir.”

“I’m one of the officers in charge,
yes,” Jake said as he motioned to the two soldiers
on guard duty to leave the room.

Hussein ignored Yocke, who leaned against the
wall opposite the translator, and directed his
remarks at Jake “The United States makes
war upon Iraq,” the translator said. “You meddle
in affairs that are none of your business.”

Hussein’s hands were bound with a single plastic tie
in front of him, so he waved them, now stopped and
shook his doubled-up fists: “How long, how long,
until you nonbelievers stop raping our daughters?
How long until you stop defiling the sacred
places? How long until you leave the children of God
to worship as the Prophet taught us?”

Toad came over to Jake and handed him a
pistol, a 9mrn automatic. “We took this
off him.”

Saddam thundered on: “You violate the
sovereignty of this nation, of this people. You shoot down
Iraqi airplanes over Iraq, you send
inspectors to hunt through our offices, you-was

Jake Grafton fired the pistol into the ceiling.
The deafening report stopped the flow of words.

The spent casing slapped against the wall and fell
to the floor with a tinny, metallic sound.

“I have a question,” Jake said softly to the
translator.

“Ask him how many Iraqis he has killed with
this pistol.”

The translator did so.

Hussein sat in silence, saying nothing.

“How many Iranians?”

Silence.

“How many Kuwaitis?

“How many Kurds?

“How many Shiites?”

Unbroken silence.

“If you don’t know or can’t remember how many
men you have personally murdered, perhaps you can tell me
how many have died at your orders?”

Saddam Hussein’s eyes were mere slits.

“When you are dead will they hold a great funeral,
or will they drag your corpse through the streets and
burn it on a dung heap?”

When he heard the translation Saddam Hussein
opened his mouth to speak, then apparently decided not
to. He looked at the translator, at Jack
Yocke, then let his gaze return to Jake
Grafton.

The automatic was heavy, Jake
Grafton stared at it, examined the safety, the
hammer, the maker’s name stamped into the metal. Then
slowly he removed his own pistol, a .357
Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver, and hefted
it thoughtfully.

He laid the revolver about a foot from his fight
hand, then gave the automatic a gentle shove with his
left. It slid down the table and came to rest about a
foot or so in front of the Iraqi dictator, the
barrel pointing out to one side.

“Let’s settle this fight here,” Jake said.
“You have killed many men–one more certainly won’t
matter on Allah’s scales. And an
unbeliever to boot. Go ahead! You grab for yours
and I’ll grab for mine and we’ll kill each
other.”

As the translator rattled this off Jake
studied the Iraqi’s face. It had gone white.
Beads of sweat were coalescing into little rivulets that
ran down beside Hussein’s nose and dripped off his
mustache. Stains were rapidly spreading across his
shirt from under each armpit.

“You’ve seen cowboy movies, haven’t you?
Let’s shoot it out, you simple, filthy son of a
bitch.”

Hussein sat frozen. He didn’t even glance
at the automatic within his grasp.

“Pick it up, was Jake Grafton roared.

Hussein sat silently while Jake regained
his composure.

He took several deep breaths, then said, “This
is your last chance to go out like a man. The next time you
will get the same chance you gave your minister of health,
the same chance you give the people you send your thugs
to kill, the same chance you were going to give the people those
bombs out there were meant for, which is none at all. This
is your only chance!”

Seconds passed. A tic developed in
Hussein’s left eyelid.

As the twitching became worse, he raised his
hands and rubbed his eye.

Finally he lowered his hands back to his lap.

Jake reached for the revolver. As he grasped it
the Iraqi started visibly. The admiral rose from
his chair, and holding the revolver in his fight hand,
retrieved the automatic. He stuck it into his
belt.

After one last look at the dictator, Jake
Grafton turned and left the room.

Jack Yocke had stood throughout this
exchange. Now he pulled a chair away from the
table and dropped into it. He got out his notebook and
mechanical pencil and very carefully wrote the date
on a clean sheet of paper. Beside it he wrote the
dictator’s name.

He looked at Hussein, who was staring at the
open door.

An armed American soldier stood there gazing
back at him.

Jack Yocke cleared his throat and caught the
attention of the interpreter, who had also pulled up a
chair. “I was wondering, Mr. President,”
Yocke said, “if you’d care to grant me an
interview for the Washington Post.”

Fifteen minutes later Jake Grafton
came back through that door, followed by the two
Russian generals. Captain Iron Mike
McElroy was behind them, cradling a submachine gun
in his arms. Then came a television reporter and
cameraman and two technicians with lights and cables
in coils over their shoulders.

Jack Yocke got out of his chair and leaned against
a wall.

Toad Tarkington eased in beside him, but he said
nothing.

Then Jack realized that Toad was holding a
pistol in his hand, down beside his leg, hidden from sight.

Spiro Dalworth was also there. As the television
reporter gave orders to his cameraman and the
technicians discussed where to put the lights,
Yocke heard Jake say to Dalworth, sk
General Yakolev if Lieutenant Vasily
Lutkin is still alive.”

“Lutkin?”

“Lutkin, the helicopter pilot. Ask him.”

Dalworth stepped over to where the general sat and
asked the question in a low voice. Yakolev glanced
at Jake, then shook his head from side to side.
Mikhailov, Yocke noted, sat staring at the
top of the table in front of him.

The television types opened a discussion of
lighting and camera angles.

Later, when he tried to recall exactly what
had happened, Jack Yocke was never sure of the
sequence.

He remembered that someone else from a television
crew came in carrying a floodlight and several people
began looking for plugs. Another cameraman came
in and his helper began unrolling cable.

The television reporter was talking
to Admiral Grafton about the possibility of
moving the news conference out into the hangar bay so they
could use one of the missiles for a backdrop when
Toad went over to where General Yakolev sat.
Yocke caught that out of the corner of his eye, but he
didn’t pay much attention.