A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [68]
“No questions, just answers,” he ordered.
It appeared they could get off the ground and fly…how long was moot…
Quinn mulled taking a run down the courtyard with the nacelles at seventy-five degrees to save fuel. No…madness. What if, out of fear of running out of fuel, we flew in helicopter mode and made a soft landing somewhere in Iran when the fuel ran out?
Fuck it! I’m going to take her high, put her into turbo-prop, and hope to God we can find the tanker. The decision had been made by Quinn. It would be better to crash than be captured.
Barakat’s sweating face was pushed close to Quinn. “Stop trembling, Barakat.”
“Am I friend or foe?” Barakat asked.
“Damned if I know, but your ass belongs to us now. You going to help us get out of here?”
“I try, I try.”
“I’ve got a totally FUBAR display and systems.”
“Try your altimeter,” IV moaned.
Grubb switched the dials on. “Got a reading.”
“Barakat, we’ve got two field compasses and a paper map. The altimeter appears to be working. I am going to fly by the stars. I want you to draw me a flight route for a rendezvous with a tanker at thirty-one-forty latitude and fifty-eight-twenty long.”
“I try, but even if we reach it, how do we contact them?”
“Phosphorous. Take the seat behind me and go to work.
“All hands, everyone in?”
“This is Ropo. All present and accounted for. Ramp is lifted.”
A horrendous shriek from Marsh as his leg was cut away. For an instant the action diminished, then a resumption.
Quinn pitched the blade angles. He wiggled his feet on the rudder controls, daintily almost, as though he were stepping into the batter’s box. He maneuvered the joystick. It felt solid. We’ll find out.
“Barakat.”
“Sir.”
“How high do we have to go to clear these mountains?”
“About nine thousand meters.”
Fourteen thousand feet! It would be borderline on oxygen use. Oxygen would help them now at any altitude. What the hell. No use saving it.
“All hands! This is Quinn. We’ve got every chance in the world to make it home. Prayers will help. Try to stay off oxygen, but use it if you feel like you’re going under.”
Random gunfire popped around the plane. Quinn checked to see if the rotors were properly engaged and whatever preflight instructions he could get from IV, who was sinking and rallying.
Quinn speeded the rotors to maximum, kicked off the hover brake, and reached for the thrust control on IV’s side. He could not properly reach it.
“Jarvis! Crawl in and push the thrust control forward. Try not to touch IV.”
“Aye, aye.”
The SCARAB shot straight up.
“Oh, God, my leg is gone!”
“Quinn,” gasped IV, “trim the nacelle to forty-five degrees…ugh…fool with the blade angle, you’ll hear it when it’s right.”
“Grubb, put my hand on the nacelle or roto-tilt levers.”
“Yeah.”
“This is IV,” he said, with his stomach half opened. “I feel like I’m in good shape.”
The doctor scribbled a note to Quinn. “IV needs morphine.”
The weight of one terrible decision after another fell on Quinn as Jarvis added more bandages to his head. If IV took morphine, IV could go ga-ga and incoherent. On the other hand, IV was going to have to go through excruciating pain without strong medication. Sorry, IV, Quinn said to himself, we need you coherent.
Quinn lifted his hand and gave a thumbs-down to Dr. Wheat.
Fort Urbakkan grew smaller and smaller, its great courtyard filled with survivors, now firing aimlessly.
Chapter 17
RHEIN-MEIN MILITARY CLINIC
FRANKFURT
It was a rare non-dank day. A kiss of sunshine flowed over the solarium. Quinn aimed his wheelchair at the warmth and held his face up. Oh, that feels good. I’ll be out of the darkness soon.
The heavy bandage kept him from scratching at the itch across his forehead. How many stitches did the doctor say? More than four hundred invisible stitches to close the underlayers of skin. You lucky bastard, he thought.
The rest of it? Strange stuff, but for shrapnel head wounds, his lasting damage would be minimal. The right eye had escaped injury, the migraine headaches would