Black Storm (14 page)

You better get your head together, he told himself. Quit zoning out. Secure thinking about the major's ass and selling front-end alignments. If the fucking Iraqis see us we're in deep fucking shit.

Sweating now, he kept looking back, sharpening his sight into the darkness that followed them.

 

GAULT WAS
thinking the overcast was good, the rain was good too. People would stay inside in this weather. The occasional distant flashes, which he figured for bombing, meant the troops they were passing would be looking up, not focused on their perimeters. He hoped.

They had a long way to go, and not much time to get there.

Gradually the ground dropped away. The wadi was peppered with gravel and the bushes grew thicker as they descended. Here and there the undergrowth was almost continuous, almost a brush line.

They had to hump thirty klicks to the linkup. Make it thirty-five, with this dogleg. One night and a day hide and part of another night, he'd figured. He hoped the Syrian asset showed up. If this Samir or Shamir or whatever his name was—Nichols called him “Shamu”—didn't show, they'd just have to strap it on for the extract site. That or try to capture somebody, see if they got lucky.

Flying Stones. He wondered again what it was, then dismissed it as his boots splashed into water. Shallow at first, an inch or two. Then it flooded his boots. Damn, he hated to march with wet feet. Have to watch out for hypothermia. He was shivering, but it was the attachments he was worried about. A navy missile geek and a female army bug doctor. He'd done his best, but there was a limit to how much bush sense you could hammer in in two days.

Pushing through the water, he flipped his compass open and sighted along the line of march. Trying to imagine what lay ahead, putting the map and what he could see of the terrain into a coherent picture.

The wadi led east, following the sloping land down toward the three lakes that shielded Baghdad from the west. He hugged the north side of the ravine as much as he could. The water deepened as they pushed on. He took each step warily, fearing sinkholes, quicksand, mines, but all his boots encountered were submerged bushes. Rocks too, making the bottom uneven, but there didn't seem to be any sudden drop-offs. The water rose over the course of the next hour till they were wading thigh-deep. Icy cold, numbing his feet inside the thin Iraqi boots. The up side was that you didn't leave tracks on water. The down side was that they were real fucking exposed. He hadn't been at Khafji, but Nichols said the Iraqis there had night vision goggles they'd bought from the Dutch and Belgians. He figured Saddam had gear like that at the front, not as far behind the lines as they were now. But it still made him feel like there was a target painted on his back.

He started skipping breaks. If they went to one knee they'd be under water. Besides, they were running behind schedule. So he just kept mushing. At one point he thought he heard the woman's voice, but when he turned, her head was down and she was slogging. She was shorter than the men and the water was up to her chest. Her deuce gear and ruck were dragging through it. He thought about relieving her of some of that weight, then
remembered he'd already lightened her load. She'd just have to keep up.

He stopped and took another bearing, standing erect as around him the others bent to prop their hands on their thighs. He signaled the pace man. Three klicks since they hit the wadi. The map showed it intersecting with another ahead, two shallow flooded ravines meeting in a V. Right now they were just about abreast, due south, of the troop position Sarsten had told them about. Give it two more miles east, then he'd cut left, get up onto dry ground, and look for a hide site.

He checked his watch again, holding his wrist away so that he could focus on the face through the NVGs. An hour and a half till BMNT—beginning of morning nautical twilight. That didn't leave a lot of time to get dug in.

He folded the map and slipped it into his leg pocket. Waved Blaisell forward again, and the barely audible splash of their movement resumed.

 

F.C. NICHOLS
slogged steadily along, not thinking of much in particular. Just keeping his head up and eyeballs roving, punching the goggles on every few minutes to track along the tops of the ridge lines between which they were moving. Couldn't see too good; they were two or three hundred meters off and the rain degraded vision. But that meant nobody could see them either. He shifted the rifle in his arms, keeping it clear of the water and the mud. If they had contact the last thing he needed was a stoppage under fire.

He hadn't been able to sleep last night. He was wet too, and cold, but none of that bothered him as much as missing the pinch of Copie he usually tucked into his cheek. Unfortunately you could smell smokeless tobacco way downwind and nobody but Americans used it. He just had to stop thinking about it. Maybe chow down on a PowerBar next time they stopped.

Eyes flicking around him, F.C. Nichols waded on.

WHEN GAULT
saw the other wadi ahead, the light was coming, the night was waning, he was racing the sun. When he lifted his goggles again, he was shocked to be able to see. The gray-silver half-light did not fall from the sky, did not seem to come from anywhere, really. Just light, visibility, bleeding up through the rocks and sand around them. He turned the NVGs off to save the battery, dropping them to hang around his neck. He looked at his watch again, then at the flat dropping-away of land ahead. No concealment there.

He walked faster and came up with Blaze. The point man flinched around, half pointing his weapon. Gault jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Blaisell looked doubtful, but led them back in a sharp zag, nearly retracing their tracks toward the rise where the two wadis met.

He stood back and let them pass, inspecting each as he went by. Sergeant Vertierra, small and spare and incredibly strong, darting him an emotionless glance out of dark eyes as he moved past with a tireless lope despite thirty extra pounds of comm gear and batteries. Never any empty chatter from the Guatemalan. Then the SAS man, stocking cap pushed back, trousers black wet as he came dripping up out of the water. His face was gray with exhaustion. After that, the navy commander, bent into his load straps, mouth set in a grim line.

The major walked as if her feet were bleeding. Water ran off her gear. She stared at him with dull hatred. He nodded and she switched her eyes past him and went on. After her came Zeitner. Gault signed to the ATL that they'd hide-site on the knob. Zeitner nodded wordlessly, looking up at it.

The gray ground at the top was strewn with rocks. Some were arranged in circles, as if shepherds had camped here. Last night, or ten centuries ago, there was no way to tell. Gault looked carefully around over his front sight. Nothing but the gray mist of rain, the gray light of dawn, coming
fast now. A good position, with good observation. Already he could see maybe a quarter mile. By full light they had to be under cover.

Zeitner signaled from ahead, pointing at a darker area of soil some distance off.

It was a dent in the ground ten meters across. Larger stones lined one side of it, fitted in what might once have been a wall or part of a foundation. He did a slow 360 and nodded. Zeitner pointed Blaze and Vertierra and Nichols out on security as he stripped his ruck off and snapped his entrenching tool open. He jumped down and probed the blade around the bottom of the depression. When he was satisfied there were no mines, he called Lenson and Maddox down with him.

Not too much later they had something like a skirmisher's trench hugging the stones, a foot and a half deep and about six by six. Zeitner was still digging as Gault started arranging the sheets.

“What kind of trex is this?” said Sarsten, looking down.

As soon as they'd stopped he'd gone to one knee and faced out, helped secure the perimeter. That was good, but his tone now wasn't. In the growing light, seeing him clearly for the first time, Gault saw that the SAS was wearing what looked very much like an Iraqi uniform. He kept his voice low. “This is our RON position.”

“Our fucking what?”

“Remain overnight. We're hiding up here today.”

“Okay, I got that, but there's no fucking cover up here. I told you, there's going to be all kinds of people around come sunup. That's how we got topped.”

Gault wasn't sure what to make of this. So far he hadn't seen a village, a cairn, a trail, any sign of life. The CIA map showed this area as unpopulated. Finally he said, “It's dawn. We're staying here.”

Sarsten kicked the sheets. “And what the fuck's this? This isn't a proper spider hole.”

He explained about the sheets and the sand, that kicked-out dirt was a different color than the topsoil. The
Britisher listened skeptically, but at last shrugged and slid in. Zeitner motioned the rest of the team inside, then dragged the cover over their heads. He tossed handfuls of sand scratching and rattling over it, then crawled in too. Eight bodies and gear huddled close together. The edges of the sheet rattled, flapping like the sail of a derelict lifeboat, till Gault reached up and tucked the flap under. Then the only sound was the eternal whisper of the desert wind.

The team lay at the bottom of the hole like tadpoles stranded in a footprint. Gault with Vertierra, back to back, taking the first watch. Nichols and Blaisell; Zeitner and the Brit, Sarsten, with Lenson closed up too. Only Maddox sat by herself, or as much so as a six-by-six hole would permit, with her knees drawn up and her back to the fitted stones that formed the north side.

Not long after dawn, rain began tapping on the sheet, then gradually became the hiss of wet sleet on gravel and rock. They huddled together, sharing warmth from ponchos and each others' bodies. The marines lay prone on their rucks, alert and motionless. Their breaths were white mist. The sheet that covered them was propped open along its edge with rocks so they could see down into the wadis. Claymore clackers dangled inside it.

F.C. Nichols was cold, wet, and tired, but he liked this position. He had a clear field of fire for three hundred yards, limited only by the gradual slope down to the wadi. At first light he'd dug elbow holes and marked out his sectors with rocks. His rifle lay across his boot, a National Match cartridge chambered and the safety on. Water dripped from the center of the sheet, pulled down by the sand and rain into a sagging teat. He'd already refilled his canteens and drunk as much as he could hold. Only trouble was, when you hydrated you had to piss. And in a hide
site that meant letting go in your trou, or at best half-turning to urinate into the grenade sump they'd spaded. Water stood inches deep in it already.

Daylight, and all day ahead of them. Back home they thought the desert was hot. His wife had sent him a big bottle of sunscreen in the Christmas package. Now it was sleeting. Not a problem. As long as they stayed covert. He leaned against the side of the hole and drifted into a light sleep.

When he awoke, it was 0840 and something hard was digging into his back. He reached around very cautiously, so as not to dislodge any of the gravel that formed the side of the pit, and shoved. Blaisell shifted an inch or two, snorted in his sleep, and relaxed again.

Dan swam slowly up into consciousness. His stomach rumbled. He was shivering, leg muscles iron-taut with cold. He rolled to his ruck and got a Ziploc of gorp. Crammed nuts and grain into his mouth, washed it down with flat-tasting rainwater. Everything was soaked. He caught a glance from Sarsten, and held the food out. The other shook his head and returned to his silent contemplation of the desert. Dan noticed the Britisher's eyes were rimmed with red. He couldn't have gotten much sleep out chasing Scuds, but he didn't seem to be trying to catch up now.

A distant bell rattled, hollow and cracked-sounding. He ducked, peering beneath the cover sheet toward the flooded wadi below. Its gray surface shivered with cat's-paws of wind. It steamed faintly in the cold air. The hillside was brown and gray rocks, like the moon. The sleet seemed to be letting up, turning back to rain.

He lifted his head, frowning.

Something had moved, in the slowly rising wisps of vapor ghosting up off the water. He glanced around. The marines had picked it up too. Nichols was staring in that direction, and the gunny had a small pair of binoculars focused on it. Vertierra leaned toward him, and they held a conversation that four feet away he couldn't overhear.
Dan looked out again, but whatever it was had gone away, or stopped moving; at least was no longer visible. There, Gault was putting the binoculars away; it must be okay.

Rolling over, curling his boots up out of the icy water that was gradually filling the pit, he pillowed his head on his rucksack, hugged himself, and closed his eyes again.

A foot away, shivering, Maureen Maddox massaged her cramped legs.
Solens, gastrocnemius, Triceps surae; the tendo calcaneus is the thickest and strongest in the body
…Her feet had gone numb during the night march, and she still couldn't feel her toes. Her shoulders hurt where the ruck straps cut, and her throat and lungs were raw. She was very tired and very cold, so exhausted she could only sleep in snatches, drive-by glimpses of nightmare she jerked up from at the slightest movement from those around her, the slightest drip of rain on her face. She was even more frightened, a bone-deep apprehension that made her feel sick, each time she woke to remember where she was.

After an internship at George Washington University Hospital, the world capital for gunshot trauma and emergency medicine, missing sleep didn't bother her. But she'd barely made it through the hump last night. Those last few hours had been a corridor lined with red velvet hangings of pain. She groped for her butt pack, shook another six hundred milligrams of ibuprofen into her palm, and swallowed the fat white tablet dry. If they went like that again tonight, that fast, that far, she'd never keep up.

Then she set her mouth in a hard line. She'd keep up, all right.

She lifted her head slightly, sure she'd heard voices. Listened for a long time, but didn't hear them again. Just the hiss of sleet, the drip of the sheet. A fart from one of the men. Charming. She wished the guys back at Fort Detrick could see her now. Be All You Can Be…ass-deep in a hog wallow in western Iraq.

A faint clear tinkling sound, delicate and wistful…
she was peeping out under the sheet when a pair of legs went by. Not twenty yards away, and the bell-clear jingle rang out again. She stared. The legs were in saffron cotton and the ankles were bare. The feet were wearing what looked like shower shoes, blue rubber flip-flops with the thong between the toes. Her first thought was that they must be freezing. Her second was to reach out and grab the nearest guy, who happened to be Lenson, and shake him awake and turn his head so he was looking where she was. She felt him stiffen. The others were looking her way now. She made walking motions with her fingers and pointed.

Gault nodded. He rolled quietly over and came up on a knee. He had his submachine gun to his shoulder, looking along the barrel. She remembered her pistol and fumbled for it. The muzzle was muddy and she wiped it on her trouser leg, hoping he hadn't seen.

The legs moved off and were followed by more; this time hairy and thin, ending in dainty black hooves that picked their way delicately among the rocks. A low
m'a'a'
came to them.

They lay rigid, not breathing, not speaking. The men had picked up their weapons. Only their eyes moved now. She felt her heart hammering, shaking her chest, and breathed slow and easy, in and out.

The goat baaed again. The bell tinkled. They seemed to be moving away.

Gault was following things from his peephole. His face crowded close, he could see the western side of the knob and beyond it the curve of gray-clouded sky. Beyond that, nothing. Then they moved into his sight, climbing up from the direction of the water, and he narrowed his eyes.

Three goats and one shepherd, goatherd, whatever you called them. A short woman in a worn padded cotton coat whose embroidery might have been colorful many years ago. Dingy yellow trousers stained with mud. He couldn't tell her age. Her face was concealed by a black cloth
wraparound. She carried a carved stick and seemed to be following rather than leading the goats. The biggest one, a bearded male, was walking point. It picked its way among the rocks, peering about like a nearsighted old man. Occasionally it stopped to nuzzle a bush. Each time it lifted its head, the bell around its neck gave a cracked rattle.

He focused the binoculars on the woman, watching every motion of her head, every step she took. She kept her eyes on the goats, or looked occasionally back down the wadi. She hadn't glanced in their direction, called out to anyone, or evidenced any interest or surprise. Now as he watched she blew her nose casually in her fingers and wiped them on the coat. She didn't sing or speak, just trudged flat-footed and weary after the animals as they drifted on up the ridge.

He watched till she passed from sight. Then quickly crept around the inside of the depression, checking at each quarter till he was certain she was gone, sure she didn't have any other companions, goatish or otherwise. The team were looking at him. He put his right fist up and shoved it out from his shoulder; then turned his hands up and waved them back and forth.

The two attachments were staring. He made the OK sign to them, unwilling as yet even to whisper. Recon used sign language in the field, basically American sign but with some additional signals for tactical moves. They'd have to trust him that things were going okay. He checked his watch. Still only 0910.

It was going to be a long day.

 

THE GOAT
lady put them all on edge. Those who had slept now lay glued to the peepholes, ears cocked for more bells. The sleet tapered off into rain again, then at last stopped.

It was even warming up a little, Jake Zeitner thought.

He'd maintained his focus through the march the night
before, wary of his earlier daydreaming. That was the kind of thing that got teams trailed, ambushed, killed. But now he wondered if he should have paid more attention to their tracks. The ground had felt rocky going down into the wadi, so he'd assumed they weren't leaving any. And of course they'd left none in the water. But on the way up here he should have checked their back trail. A patch of damp sand would preserve a footprint. He thought about leaving the hide site, scouting back to make sure. Then thought, No way, not in daytime. They'd just have to hunker down and wait.

Which was the hardest thing to do of all.

He remembered recon school. Foggy cold mornings, on the beach at 0430, runs and group cals carrying inflatable boats over their heads till their arms were dead and the fatigues sawed salt-raw gashes into their skin. Five-mile open-ocean swims with pack and weapon. Then class work in the old concrete-block buildings dug into a sand dune in Virginia Beach, and rehearsing tactics step by step in the scrubby woods overlooking the Chesapeake. The instructors were muscular noncoms with crew cuts, guys who'd fought at Khe Sanh and Hue City. They were marathon runners, SCUBA, Jump, and Ranger qualified, and led every swim and run from the front. They were profane and abusive but he could live with being dropped for push-ups and shouted at, called pussy and limp dick, pogy and asshole bandit. What sobered him was when they quietly asked a man to fall out and wait in the office. That student disappeared; you never saw him again.

Those who survived had gone to Fort A.P. Hill, hundreds of square miles of Rappahannock woods, for weeks in the field, testing and honing their skills. Most of the guys liked that part, but he'd dreaded the dark hours. Waiting on one knee in the dark, no sleeping, no talking, he'd start to imagine monsters coming through the trees at him. Jerk awake with his throat locked on a scream. He just didn't like waiting. Maybe he wasn't really recon material.

No, fuck that. He was twenty-eight now, for Christ's sake. He'd done all right in the Corps, but an E-5 only made nine hundred and twenty-six dollars a month, base pay.

He thought again about the doc. Not about her ass, this time, but the way she'd stitched up the pilot…he'd thought about med school once…but he was committed with Joel on the store. Firestone was a good company, they could make some real money. Put a wrecker on the road and they could service the interstate from Olean to Hornell. He could run a store. Sometimes he thought he was smarter than the other guys in the platoon. The gunny was sharp, but then you had guys like this Blaisell. Rednecks from down south or out west, yahoos whose idea of intellectual challenge was watching
Twin Peaks
while they were power lifting.

Around noonish a crackle turned his head. F.C. was noshing on a PowerBar. The sight made him hungry. He checked his sector again, then got his ruck open and found the shit-green plastic of an MRE. Pork Patty. There were heater packs in the issue rations, but the team threw them away when they repacked for the field. You could smell hot food hundreds of yards downwind. He ripped it open and squeezed the cold gristly mass into his mouth.

A distant motor stopped his hands. They all lifted their heads. A gas engine, not far off. It sounded like a lawnmower or a chain saw, high and irregular. Caught Gault looking at him, mouthing, What's that? Giving him the hunched shoulders: I can't see anything.

The buzz persisted, moving till it seemed to come from directly overhead. They lay still. It sounded like an RPV. The little unmanned aircraft were noisy as hell, but so small and so high you couldn't see them. If that was what it was, it was probably theirs. But gradually it too faded back into the sound of the wind.

He looked at his watch. Noon. He reached out and patted the gunny silently on the shoulder, pointed to his watch. Mimed sleeping, pointed at Gault. Who nodded,
let himself down onto his ruck, and a moment later was asleep.

Zeitner caught Blaisell's opened eye. He pointed to him and circled the horizon. Blaze made an unhappy mouth, but got up on a knee, picked up his weapon, and took a peephole.

 

THE AFTERNOON
had mostly crept past when the boy found them. The first sign was a clack of stone on stone. Those who were asleep woke without motion or sound; simply opening their eyes as their fingers tightened on weapons. Gault held up his hand for silence, but it was like rebuking the dead.

They listened till it came again: the click-rattle of a pebble, kicked or thrown, landing on rocky ground. And with it the fainter rattles of goats' hooves searching over the bare ground, the occasional baa as they called to one another.

F.C. pointed at his peephole. The sounds came from down along the wadi, the same direction the team had come the night before.

See anything? Gault, signing to him across the hole.

Nichols shook his head. He aligned his rifle carefully, not bringing it to firing position, but lining the barrel up along the bearings he'd marked at dawn. He set his thumb against the safety and checked that the magazine was seated.

A stone hit and bounced a few yards away. It dislodged a little shower of pebbles.

The neigh of the goats, closer. Coming up from the wadi.