A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [65]
The old Marine allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. Jesus, he thought, all the years of planning, how many years? Forty? Planning maneuvers, raids, battles, campaigns. Now at last was a close-to-perfect operation. At least, up to this point. It seemed like something went always awry after the first shots were exchanged, and it usually boiled down to every Marine improvising with the man on his left and right to win their piece of turf. This was sublime!
“Quinn to Novinski. What kind of read can you get on your display of the courtyard?”
“Novinski here. Marsh’s squad at ten o’clock from west wall to one-third of courtyard. Grubb’s people making a move back toward SCARAB. Separation between Marines and Irans is at least sixty yards. Hold it, hold everything, something’s lying on the deck about twenty yards behind Marsh’s squad.”
“What?”
“Quinn to Dogbreath! I see it, too! Unexploded bomb!”
“This is Grubb. I see it loud and clear.”
“Dogbreath to Grubb. Can you read the stripes?”
“Black and blue, a cluster bomb!”
“Dogbreath to Grubb. Stop! You are ordered not to throw yourself on that bomb. It won’t help. Pull Marsh’s squad back, dump your ammo and missiles as planned for weight reduction. Marsh.”
“Marsh here.”
“Cover Ropo’s and Grubb’s people. Do not, repeat, do not fire near that grounded bomb, but keep those Irans pinned back. Allow no forward movement.”
“Marsh here. I’ve got it.”
Half of Grubb’s squad ditched their ammo clips, laid their missiles down, and ran up the ramp. They had to jam their way around the operating table and dispensary that had been lowered from the ceiling.
Ropo’s five-man squad burst out of the tower dragging a dumpy captive whose legs would not keep up. Into the plane! Marsh pulled his men back…back…
“Dogbreath to Grubb. We’ve got the fat man. Keep bringing your people back, but softly and at the ready.”
Gunfire cracked and echoed throughout the yard. Either some Irans had regrouped, or maybe there was a patrol outside the fort that had rushed back.
“Dogbreath to Grubb. Barrage them with TOWs. Do not! Do not fire near that bomb laying out there.” As the missiles zipped and struck, the end of the yard choked in blood and agony.
Bandar Barakat was shoved forward toward the front cabin, tied and gagged. Grubb and Marsh remained outside of the SCARAB as their men went up the ramp.
Jeremiah Duncan looked it all over quickly, seized Quinn’s arm. “If anything happens to me, it’s your command, Quinn.”
Quinn protested. “Don’t like it.”
Dogbreath repeated, “Yea or nay?”
“This is Quinn. I’ll do it.”
“Dogbreath to Cherokee and IV.”
“Yo.”
“Yo.”
“Prepare the SCARAB to go.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Yo.”
It happened neither violently nor loudly, but with a powerful womph! Outside, Marsh went down. The left-side bubble of the SCARAB’s windshield popped in, followed by a roiling hiss of air and a shower of razor-sharp metal squares and explosive buckshot. The top of Cherokee’s head was sliced clean off; behind him, Jeremiah Duncan’s and Novinski’s faces were blown away. IV caught a ricochet boring into his left side. He was still alive!
Quinn had been kneeling over Barakat, tying him up, and was out of the direct line of the bomb’s wrath. Oh, Jesus! Quinn’s head screamed! He doubled over, his forehead opened and bleeding down his face. He fought his way back from unconsciousness with an unknown power keeping him alive and awake.
“Corpsman,” Quinn called softly, “I’m hit, when you’ve got a chance.”
Outside the plane, Grubb ran to Marsh, flung him over his shoulder, and ran for the SCARAB. Marines jumped out of the plane to cover and assist them. Marsh’s leg dangled by a cord of sinew.
Dr. Wheat went forward. “Three body bags! Dogbreath, Novinski, and Cherokee are dead.”
Ropo’s men tugged the bodies