A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [67]
“Yeah, four or five.”
“How’s this: wrap the piece with plastic from the spare body bags and canvas from the litters. We clamp it all together, put it inside the plane, and tie it with rope wire through the struts. Anybody got a better idea?”
The odor of dead parts now mingled with a waterfall of sweat.
“Jarvis. Help me into Cherokee’s seat,” Quinn ordered.
“Yo.”
Grubb took off Quinn’s soaked bandage and replaced it.
“Grubb. I want you to stay up front. Turn the back cabin over to Ropo. Then snuggle in close to Jarvis. Jarvis, you read the instruments and point. Grubb, take my hand and place it on the proper levers. IV, you still there, buddy?”
“In a manner of…” IV gasped.
“Have you got the drill? Stop me if I’m making a bad move,” Quinn said.
Quinn made the mistake of reaching to give IV a pat. IV’s stomach seemed bubbling to explode. “If we can’t get this SCARAB up and away, I think we fight it out to the last man,” Quinn said to himself. “I’m not taking these men to an Iranian prison.” He punched the makeshift window. May not hold.
“Mercer, make a brace or a cross over the window out of a couple of machine-gun barrels.”
“Got it.”
No Iranian had crossed the “I dare you” line in the courtyard, but distant curses could be heard from the survivors, reaching to their depths for valor, collecting weapons amid the devastation, and craving a rally.
The first shots rang over the courtyard, kicking up dirt near the SCARAB.
“Ropo! Get all your TOW men out of the plane and give the Irans hellfire! Shoot up everything you’ve got! We need to buy ten minutes.”
IV grunted the checklist to Grubb, who quickly located the switches and levers and moved Quinn’s hand to them.
…Doc Wheat had screwed down the tourniquet on Marsh’s leg, turned him over to Corpsman Lew, and skidded on blood to the forward cabin to ease the pressure bandage off IV. He probed. “I need a bigger flashlight here!”
“Coming,” Mercer answered.
“Holy Mother!” screamed IV.
“Sulfa powder! Sulfa powder!” Wheat called, probing with forceps and fingers. “Geez peese,” he cried, pulling out a piece of buckshot. “Sorry, buddy, I’ve got to cauterize you…don’t go into fucking shock on me. Who’s holding the flashlight?
“Give me the light and tell Corpsman Lew I need the hot needle, and a couple slugs of brandy, then put this clamp in his mouth to bite on.”
Outside, the Marine shoulder missiles laid rubble on rubble and broke up the Irans’ attempt to rally.
“We’re running low on TOWs!”
“Fire your clips till empty. There’s ammo ditched on the ground, right side of the craft.”
“In like Quinn,” Mercer said, pointing at the unconventional window brace.
“Kick it, hard,” Quinn ordered.
It held.
“IV.”
“Oh, piss, what?”
“If the ship doesn’t hold pressurization, how low do we have to fly?”
“Under ten thousand…” he groaned.
“Hot needle coming up!”
A barrage of automatic fire wiped out all other sounds. Quickly, everyone clamped on earphone sound deflectors.
“I’ve got your belly deadened best I can, IV, now drink this, then bite on your clamp. Go.”
Wheat applied the needle. IV arched up, screamed. Held in place by strong hands, he settled down and a smile crossed his sweaty, bloody, tortured face.
“Hey, Marine, good going,” Wheat said.
“Jarvis, can you punch in an alternate system and try to bring up the CDU?”
“All the display panels and LED readouts were shattered by the cluster,” Jarvis answered.
“Do we have a radio?” Quinn asked.
“Negative.”
“Oh, Lord. Well, let’s see.” The head pain came on like a torrent until he had to bite his tongue and lower lip, hard. Come on, Quinn, for Christ’s sake, this is no time to pass out.
“Jarvis.”
“Yo.”
“Jarvis, wipe the blood out of my eyes, then have the closest two men to Barakat remove his gag and get his face up here. What’s our fuel reading?”
“No reading.”
Quinn quickly ran through the problem. He had ledgered the weight of each piece of equipment. If he subtracted all the missiles and bullets shot up, subtracted the approximate weight of the fuel used, he might get a round figure