41
OUTSIDE AMASHA
Mohammad Azizi lowered his binoculars and rubbed his chin. Sprawled on a hummock half a kilometer from the village, he judged that the attack was progressing tolerably well. He accepted the handset from his radio operator and called his subordinate commander.
“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”
The RO glanced at the leader of the security element. They exchanged knowing glances. Trust Azizi to select a grandiose call sign. Baahir meant “dazzling” or “brilliant” while Ameen was merely “trustworthy.”
The assault commander took ten seconds to respond. “We are heavily engaged in . . .” The sound of gunfire crackled behind the voice, which faded out. Azizi waited for clarification, and when it did not come he tried again.
“Ameen, this is Baahir. Reply.”
“I am here.”
“This is Baahir. Listen, I can see people fleeing the opposite side of the village. Keep up the pressure but do not prevent anyone from leaving. Acknowledge.”
The carrier wave snapped and sputtered. Something high-pitched assailed Azizi’s ear, ending in a screech. Nearly a minute passed. Then the voice was back. “Ameen speaking. My radio operator has been killed. But I am advancing. Reply.”
Azizi pressed the transmit button. “Baahir responding.” Long seconds passed. He tried again.
After two more attempts Azizi passed the handset to his RO. The operator shrugged. “It seems that he can transmit but not receive.”
“Well, there’s nothing more to be done here.” Azizi levered himself out of the prone position. He picked up his rifle and began walking downhill. “We should get closer, anyway.” When the radioman caught up with him, he added almost as an afterthought: “Try to contact the El-Arian commander. I want to know the situation over there.”
* * * *
AMASHA
Breezy didn’t know how he got under cover. He only remembered looking into Bosco’s dead face. He was hardly aware of the gunfire around him: it was nearly constant, almost atmospheric. Just part of the landscape. Becoming aware, he remembered to run a system check on his rifle: half-empty magazine, round chambered, safety engaged. One full mag remaining.
Steve Lee rapped on Breezy’s helmet. “You okay? We can’t stay here.”
Breezy stared into the retired major’s face. Lee. Steve Lee. You pulled me away from . . . Bosco. He nodded. “We . . .” We what?
Lee slapped the operator upside the head, hard. “Damn it, Brezyinski, snap out of it! We’re in deep serious here. Get your damned head back in the game!”
The sharp blow got results. Breezy’s grief-numbed brain defaulted to shock, then anger. He opened his mouth to scream at his tormentor, then something settled in the back of his mind. He’s right. Gotta stay in the fight.
He blinked, hard. “Okay, Major. I’m all right now.”
“Hoo-ah!” Lee hefted Leopole’s satellite phone. “I hope to hell this battery’s good. Wasn’t time looking for another.” He glanced left and right before leaving cover, noting the growing confusion around him. Some militiamen were withdrawing slowly, firing and leap-frogging back upon each other as they had been trained. Others were scampering for cover, though none had abandoned their weapons.
Lee inhaled, blew out the breath, and said, “With me.”
He lunged upright, driving forward with his weight lifter’s thighs, and pivoted to cover the far end of the block. Breezy was close behind, swinging his muzzle to cover the opposite side of the street. They went ten or twelve paces when Breezy saw the projectile smoking toward them. He only had time to scream “RPG!”
The warhead exploded within feet of Steve Lee, and he went down in a tumble. He was screaming in pain and rage, holding his ruined right leg with both hands.
Breezy stopped, entertaining an ephemeral question: Is he done? Should I run?
He slung his rifle and grasped the stitched cloth handle on the back of Lee’s ballistic vest. Hardly noticing the 240 pounds of man and gear, Breezy pulled Lee through an open door.
“The radio!” Lee yelled. “Get the radio!”
Breezy looked outside and saw the precious lifeline in the street. He glanced at Lee’s bloody leg—what was left of it—and hesitated.
“Go, God damn it!” Lee shoved at him with one hand.
Breezy dashed into the street, scooped up the sat phone, and dashed back inside. He unslung his medic’s kit and pulled out a tourniquet. He worked fast, almost glad to have something to occupy his mind.
He knew that he was feeling the rising tide of panic. With an effort of will he choked it down. “It’s bad, Maje, but I can handle it.”
Lee allowed his head to rest on the floor, not wanting to look at his severed limb. He was surprised at how little pain he felt so far. But it’ll come.
Breezy finished tending the traumatic amputation and pulled Lee farther inside the room. Some family’s breakfast had been violently interrupted. Looking around, he saw Lee’s carbine and fetched it for him.
“Jim Bowie,” Lee rasped.
“What?”
“That’s me. Jim Bowie, propped up in bed at the Alamo.” Lee emitted a giggle. “Mexicans over the wall. Gooks in the wire.”
Breezy feared that Lee was descending into shock. In the dim light, it was possible to see his eyes dilating.
“Major, can you stand? I can help you outside and maybe we can get help.”
Lee shook his head violently. “No ... no. Wouldn’t make it.” He fumbled at his vest, seeking his notebook. As he patiently, deliberately wrote something, he said, “Gimme a shot.”
Breezy reached into his bag. “You want morphine?”
Lee clinched his teeth, biting down the rising pain. “All you got.”
Brezyinski recoiled at the implication. “I can’t do that. You know . . .”
Lee’s left hand was on Breezy’s throat. “Listen! I’m not gonna make it. An’ you can’t get out with me. But we can’t let them get the sat phone. Here.” He shoved the paper into Breezy’s hand. The ruled lines were crudely scrawled in black ink smudged with blood not quite dried.
Breezy focused hard to read the words. Fatal wound, can’t move. Ordering B out with radio. Love to family. Lee.
“Now, gimme enough morphine!”
On by far the worst day of his life, before or after, Mark Brezyinski rolled up Stephen Lee’s sleeve, found the vein, and complied with his friend’s wish. Then the onetime happy-go-lucky paratrooper picked up the sat phone, walked through the door, and went over the wall.
* * * *