Eagle Station Part 39

Court didn't hear another word as the 20 and 40mm rounds moaned down through the clouds and thudded and hammered and exploded in the terrain where the SpetsnaZ attacking the bunker were hidden. Court heard faint screams and yells through the pandemonium, then the sound of Wolf's weapon firing burst after burst. He crawled to the edge of the pit and peered over the sandbag edge. Backlit by the flames of the burning Phantom and the reflecting clouds, it looked like a scene from Dante's Inferno as the smaller 20mm cannon sh.e.l.ls detonated in white sparkles and the larger 40mm sh.e.l.ls boomed and exploded into three-foot orange fireb.a.l.l.s. Figures and pieces of figures were jumbling and tumbling in the air along with pieces of rock and earth as the sweeping guns churned men and dirt into red-brown clots.

"Beautiful," Court shouted into the handset. "You're right on them, Spec, keep it coming. Beautiful." His blood was pumping and he felt an exhilarated rush as his body and mind came together in the exuberant realization they might just escape annihilation on this Laotian mountaintop. And he had successfully put the cras.h.i.+ng death of his two men out of his mind.

For five more minutes the torrent of death washed the enemy enclave.

Wolf fired out and inserted a fresh magazine into his AK-47.

He sighted down the barrel but didn't fire. He got slowly to his knees, sighting carefully beyond the sandbags, then sat back on his heels. "All right," he said, "all right. That's enough. Turn it off."

"Hold fire," Court ordered Spectre. "Hold high and dry.

You guys done good, real good," he said, falling into the ungrammatical phrases combat men use to congratulate each other.

"This is Guns.h.i.+p Charley, at your service," a new voice said on Court's radio. "You ask, we bash. You call fast, we haul a.s.s.

Have guns, will travel. We got lots of playtime and we'll just hang around till daylight."

Court thanked what he suspected was the aircraft commander of the huge four-engined plane. Prior to this, neither he nor Court had ever seen what incredible destruction and death their weapons caused below their flight path. This was Court's first time to see war from the ground.

Through slitted eyes Wolf saw the elation on Court's face in the flickering light. He wondered how long it would last as they made their way through the carnage to the bunker. "Come on ' " he said. "Let's move it." They climbed out of the pit and stood on the rim, quite safe now. Silence hung humid and heavy over the area that moments ago had yielded thunder and screams in the crescendo of battle. There were no moans, for there were no intact throats. Throats and lungs were long separated and shredded. The cans on the flaming affow behind them made small pops and clicks as the heat source in each slowly burned out. The flames from Howie Joseph and John Martin's funeral pyre were lowering.

They picked their way to the bunker door. Court saw here an arm, there a leg draped in looping wetness, a headless bulk in a shredded uniform blouse, broken weapons, smoking holes.

He felt the heartiness of victorious battle drain quickly. It's so quiet, so silent.

Inside the bunker was pandemonium: hoa.r.s.e yells and hysterical laughs as the men surrounded Court and Wolf and pounded them on the back, spouting half-sentences of relief and joy. "We were dead... G.o.d, what noise ...

what took you so long... h.e.l.luva job... heard the whole thing on our Fox Mike... Who are those people out here? Are there any more?"

"Take it easy, guys," Pearson said, drawing his men back.

Wolf and Court stood with the two Powerses. Mister Sam drew them back to a corner, where they grouped around the edge of the rough wooden table that held the radios. Babs Powers looked bright-eyed, almost feverish, Court thought, and wondered if all the action had sobered her up. He made his report to Moonbeam on the bunker's Fox Mike. When he gave the details of Phantom 02's crash, they promised that Phantom 03 would be on call when his Rescap orbit time was completed over Lima Site "There's more out there, aren't there?" Powers said, facing Court and Wolf, preempting anything Mister Sam might want to say. "Why didn't you get them all? What's the matter, chicken?"

"Jesus Christ," Mister Sam said, "these guys were out there getting the f.u.c.king job done and you were in here drinking coffee."

Powers whirled on him. "How dare you talk that way to me?

Listen, you, I'm the ranking civilian in here and your job is to protect us-"

"You're the ranking idiot, who's got no business even being here,"

Mister Sam said.

"Jer, do shut up," Babs Powers said in a weary voice.

"He's right on one thing," Court said, trying to be conciliatory. "There are more out there."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Powers said scornfully as he turned to Court and tapped his chest with a forefinger.

"And where is our mighty Air Force now? Why, one of you dummies flew right into this mountain. A little higher and he'd have killed us all."

In a flash of red rage, Court became suddenly and irreversibly involved.

He slammed his right fist into Jerome Powers' mouth, knocking him back against the table, where he slipped to the floor.

There was shocked silence in the bunker. Enlisted menwhether or not they are sheep-dipped and called technicianswere not used to seeing an Air Force officer deck a civilian wheel, even if the wheel was the all-time a.s.shole of the universe. One hidden-in-the-crowd man found his voice.

"Good on ya, mate," he said in a phony Australian accent, "served the little b.u.g.g.e.r right."

"You're going to pay for this, Bannister, oh, how you're going to pay,"

Powers said from his position on the floor.

He found a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood from his cut lip. Babs knelt next to him and took the handkerchief away and blotted the blood for him. "Next time, ducks," she said, "use your brains, not your b.a.l.l.s." She helped him to his feet. He eyed Court as if planning to punch him but didn't move.

"Let's figure out what to do next," Mister Sam said with a barely concealed grin on his face. "All is not lost."

Bob Pearson joined the group. "Is it clear enough out there for me to get back to the radar van to see what happened? We haven't had contact with them for a while. Verbell would have checked in by now."

"You got maybe five minutes," Wolf said, "before the part of the contingent that held Hak's troops away will be here. They're going to want to know what happened to their buddies."

"We'll be back in two," Pearson said, nodded at a buck sergeant, and they slipped out the bunker door.

"Here's how I see it," Wolf said. "I'd say there's fifteen or so more of those guys by Hak's village, and they are going to come back here to open this place up like a Spam can when they see what happened to their buddies." He looked at Mister Sam. "Does Hak have any men left who can engage?"

Mister Sam shook his head. "We're lucky he can still talk on the radio.

He said the bad guys pinned them all in the village, then hosed off a round or two every few seconds to keep their heads down. He has maybe ten effectives. They're armed but low on ammo."

"How about the men on the north slope trail? They still holding off the PL from below?"

"Negative. Hak said the PL withdrew when that Phantom crashed."

"I don't suppose there's any reason to think Bunth might send some people up to help us."

"Wolf, you've got to be an incurable optimist even to ask that question.

Forget it. He won't even answer us on the radio."

Wolf turned to Court. "Okay, flyboy, what you got for US?" "Once we get the word from Pearson about who or what's left in the radar van, I say use Spectre all night. If this bunker is as well-built as Wolf wanted, we can take 20mm and 40mm hits without any damage. Use Spec to shoot until daylight, then get some strike flights in here and an evac bird to get the Powerses out of here." Court did not look at either Jerome or Babs Powers when he spoke. He referred to them as if they were merely cargo that needed to be transported from one location to another.

"You might consult us about that," Jerome Powers said, a petulant look on his face.

"You want to stay here?" Mister Sam asked.

"Well, under the circ.u.mstances I think not. But you should check with me first before making any plans."

"Consider yourself checked," Mister Sam said.

Men near the bunker door opened it at Pearson's signal. He and the buck sergeant came in looking tense and worried. Their USAF fatigues were dirty and torn. Court noticed almost with amus.e.m.e.nt that they wore steel helmets. It seemed the Air Force sometimes found it necessary to issue steel helmets and sometimes even flak vests and M-16s to its people, but never really trained them in how to use them properly in combat.

"We didn't find either one of them," Bob Pearson said. "But I think I know what happened and where they are." His face looked drawn. Mister Sam handed him a water bottle and he drank deeply. "The Spetsnaz, or whoever, broke in there by blowing the door off its hinges, not by blowing the van up, which would have been easy from underneath. When I got there, n.o.body was inside, no bodies, no blood, no fired rounds or bullet holes-nothing except this."

He took out a radar operator's plastic card with a compa.s.s imprinted on it. It was called a "handy-dandy" and was used to help track blips on his scope. The word "straps" was scrawled on it in grease pencil, as if written in haste.

"I think," Pearson said, "Verbell knew they were coming and knew he couldn't get back here. I think he took Evans to the slings and they let themselves down to the caves."

"Nothing we can do about them now," Wolf said. "We'll go after them in the morning."

"No," Pearson said in agitation. "I've got to go look for them now. I think they're in the straps and need some help." Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed an M-16 and bolted out the door.

Court jumped to his feet to go after him. "Hold on," Wolf said. "Just hold on. We'll go out together real soon, once it's first light. No sense in everybody running around in the dark around those cliffs."

Court sat back. Thirty minutes pa.s.sed as he and Wolf tried to relax.

The other men settled down and tried to sleep . The Powers retired to a corner. Then the bunker shook as a blast sounded at the barricaded front door.

"They're here," Wolf said, opening his eyes.

"G.o.d, what about Pearson?" Court asked.

Wolf shrugged. "He was a good man, went out after his troops. Get Spectre to fire on us, otherwise those guys are going to blast in here and we'll all be wiped out."

Court tried to put Pearson out of his mind as he picked up the handset and made contact with Spectre on the PRC-25.

"Fire on your position?" the table nav said. "No sweat, I've got it in the computer, but you gotta be crazy ... or want the Medal." Spectre's black humor came from the unwritten law that if you fell on an enemy grenade or called in artillery or air upon yourself, then you were a candidate for a Medal of Honor.

A posthumous presentation was almost always guaranteed.

Court saw Pearson again and again in his mind as the young surfer who had met their plane in what seemed a long time ago.

He snapped back to what he had to do.

"Neither. Shoot, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. We're overrun and well protected. It would take a direct hit by a 1,000-pound bomb to blow us away."

Spectre was quick. Court wasn't through talking before the 20 and 40mm.

cannon sh.e.l.ls rained on the earth and rock covering the buried bunker and the immediate area. The rapid sharp detonations of the 20mm sh.e.l.ls made it sound as if they were in the middle of a giant popcorn machine, and the sharp wham, whant, wham of the 40s rattled everyone's teeth and caused dirt to fall from the wooden shoring above their heads.

The concussion made -them feel as if little puffs of air were slamming into their bodies. Soon the smell of cordite permeated the air. No one spoke, and they all sat on the floor with their mouths slightly open to absorb the concussion.

After two minutes the heavy fire stopped and the voice of the table navigator came over the loudspeaker.

"Phantom, this is Spectre. It's not that we're out of ammo, but can you tell us if we are doing any good out there? Are we hitting where you want? Are there any more left? Can you give us a quick recce?" Wolf nodded and Court told Spectre to stand by while they went out to look around.

He and Wolf stood by the door and listened for outside sounds. "You sure you want to go back out there, flyboy?" Wolf asked. "This is way out of your MOS." MOS was the Army's acronym for Military Occupational Specialty. JOB would have worked just as well.

"No, I don't want to go out there, but you can't go by yourself." Court grabbed the RT-10 survival radio and the Spectre hand beacon and stuffed them into his pockets.

"You're a real walking command post," Wolf said. He punched Court lightly on the arm, nodded to the two airmen handling the door, and the two of them stepped into the light lock, closed the door, then opened the outer door and crept into the night. They carried AK-47s and Wolf had a PRC-25 on his back.

After they were gone, Mister Sam arose, lit a Coleman stove, and put a tin can full of water on the surface. "Coffee, anyone?"

Jerome Powers sat as if in a trance. His mouth hung open, eyes unfocused. Babs sat next to him, not touching him, hugging her drawn-up knees to her chest. Her eyes drooped in fatigue as the effects of the liquor wore off. She stirred and rubbed her eyes. They felt grainy and red. She bet she looked a mess. She felt in her purse, then remembered that Court had thrown her flask away. She pulled out a comb and a compact mirror and gave her hair a swipe. In the dim light of the kerosene lantern she saw some of the troops look at her with what she hoped was s.e.xual desire, but down deep, in the cellar of her mind, she was afraid their glances were more of curiosity or even dislike.

She thought about Court Bannister. Play your hand cautiously, she thought. He would come around. She had never had trouble getting a man to do what she wanted before, and he was no different. A sharp explosion outside snapped her eyes open.

"Does that answer your question?" Wolf said as he and Court peered into a smoking depression where Wolf had just flung a hand grenade.

"Yeah. Now I know what probe by fire means."

"So there was no one in there. Next time there might be."

The fires were out, but first light put a vague gray behind the black ma.s.ses that made up the Eagle Station complex.

They made a quick check of the radar van and found it empty, as Pearson had said.

"Where did he go?" Court asked the dawn sky.

"Let's check the straps," Wolf said and started toward the top of the cliff face where the lowering straps were concealed.

"Maybe we can find something out." They reached the spot and saw the straps were unreeled and hanging over the edge.

"Something wrong," Wolf said. "There's no tension on them."

He pulled at one and it came up easily in his hands. The line had been cleanly severed. Court pulled up the other two lines and found the same thing. Wolf looked at the tracks in the dirt near the cliff and by the rocks, where the straps were secure.

"Somebody's got those guys," he said, pointing at the strange boot patterns. "I think the bad guys just got themselves a couple new POWs.

Maybe Pearson is alive." He turned. "C'mon, we don't have time to look further. We better get back."

They hadn't gone three steps when the sudden yammering of a Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifle up the trail toward Hak's village split the dawn quiet.

There were shouts and more shots, then a rapid exchange of automatic weapons fire. Some of the bullets zinged down the trail and smacked into rocks and bushes by them.

"Well, somebody's still alive up there," Wolf said as they flung themselves behind a rock. He pulled the handset from its holder and asked Maple what he had heard from Hak.

"He said the enemy had not fully disengaged. When he started down the trail to us, a rear guard or something like that opened up on him. He doesn't have a count of how many. And he hasn't heard from his troops guarding the climbing trail on the north face, but he heard some shooting down there."

"I think there are Spets still alive up here and maybe more coming up the trail," Wolf told him. "Any contact with Bunth?"

"Nothing," Mister Sam radioed back.

Wolf handed the handset to Court. "Get Spectre on this. Have them zero in but stand by till we sort it out."

"Spectre 24, this is Phantom. We got another fire mission for you."

"Stand by, Phantom," the worried voice of the table nav said.