Edge of Valor (22 page)

Peoples replied, “You mean we're not getting time and a half?”

Berne said, “Would you believe we are about to shoot at our allies?”

“They shot first,” said Radcliff.

“Twenty seconds,” said Ingram.

He stood in the doorway and looked aft into the cabin. The Marines were bunched against the two port-side doors, about six to a door, portable aluminum ladders poised. He caught Harper's eye and they exchanged a thumbs-up.

Ingram checked his watch. Time! “Go, Bucky.”

“Roger.” Radcliff reached over and advanced the two port-engine throttles. With a roar, the engines revved up and the C-54 began swinging clockwise, the port number one engine heading directly for the half-track off to their right.

“Jeeez, you were serious boss,” said Peoples.

Berne crossed himself.

“Trust me, boys,” said Radcliff.

The Russians looked up in panic as the C-54's outboard propeller, driven by a 1,350-horse Pratt & Whitney R-2000 engine, scythed right at them. Three of the four jumped out the sides. The driver frantically kicked the starter and worked the choke.

Ingram felt a concussion off to his left. Smoke billowed from the half-track on their port side. The Marines must have exited safely. The three Russians on the runway raised their weapons and began shooting. They were cut down immediately by a burst of gunfire from under the right wing.

The driver in the other half-track got his vehicle going, but it bucked and bounced as he yanked the steering wheel to the left. The half-track stalled and the driver gave up and jumped out the door.

Berne stood and looked out the left cockpit window. “You got it, boss. We're okay.”

The driver stood about twenty feet away watching as the propeller cleared the M-16 by no more than two feet. Then he took off toward the skirmish line.

A red flare rose from among the troops in the skirmish line. They were closer, perhaps three hundred yards.

Ingram said, “Bucky, roll for the tower and the Japs. Try to find a revetment where Hammer can do something with those two engines.”

“I had the same idea.”

“You should be safe there. Get Fujimoto to talk to the Japs.”

Radcliff looked up. “Only chance we got. I wonder if he's okay.”

“Wait one.” Ingram ran aft, finding Fujimoto stretched out on the floor. Blood was spattered over his khaki shirt.

Blinde knelt beside him pressing a battle dressing onto his left shoulder. Ingram asked, “What do you think?”

“I think he'll be okay. But I'm not a doctor,” said Blinde.

“Hurts like the blazes,” said Fujimoto. His face was pale, and sweat beaded his forehead. “You have morphine?”

“Not now. I need you,” said Ingram.

“Are you serious?”

“Please.”

Fujimoto grimaced. “My every waking moment is filled with favors for you.”

“Lieutenant O'Toole is dead. We're going to try for the tower. I need you to translate and negotiate with your soldiers. Okay?”

“I'll try.” Fujimoto tried to sit up, groaned, and lay back. “Maybe later,” he gasped.

“Thirsty?”

Fujimoto nodded.

Ingram looked across the aisle and saw Lieutenant O'Toole splayed on the floor, his gaze fixed at the ceiling. Blood ran from the back of his head.

“He was a good man,” said Fujimoto. “A Domer.”

“That he was,” agreed Ingram. He looked up, “Anybody have some water?”

Sergeant Hammer came up the aisle and handed over a canteen.

Blinde grabbed it and held it to Fujimoto's mouth. The wounded man drank for a moment, water dribbling down his chin.

Ingram said, “You going to be all right?”

“Like I said, I'll try. How are things going out there?”

“To tell you the truth, I think we just started World War III.”

“How nice. And this time everyone is mobilized. No time wasted.”

Ingram said, “Not this guy. I'm ready for home.”

Fujimoto closed his eyes and nodded.

Ingram turned to Blinde. “You have a weapon?”

Blinde patted a shoulder holster hidden under his jacket. “Thirty-two automatic. It was my mother's.”

“What?”

“Pearl handle.”

Ingram snorted. “About as much stopping power as a BB gun.”

Blinde stuck his nose up a bit. “Better than nothing.”

“I hope so.” Ingram stood. “Okay, I'm off.”

Ingram and Hammer walked back to the cockpit. Ingram let Hammer past and then asked, “Runway clear?”

“As far as we can see,” said Radcliff.

“Good. Fujimoto looks all right—a little loopy, but okay. Blinde is helping him for now. I think he'll be okay when the time comes.

Radcliff called, “All right. Watch it out there, Todd. Looks like the bastards on the skirmish line are taking potshots at us.”

“You're kidding!”

“Yeah, Harper and his boys are behind the half-tracks.”

Ingram turned to Berne, “Any more from Okinawa?”

“Not a peep, sir.”

“Damn it. Okay, keep trying. Gotta run, Bucky. Now get going.”

“No argument from me. Good luck.”

Ingram jumped out the port-side hatch and quickly scrambled down the ladder. Harper and six of his men knelt twenty yards away behind the empty half-track.

Two bullets grazed the concrete beside Ingram and zinged off into the distance. Radcliff goosed his engines, the roar incredible. The C-54 swung all the way around and began waddling back toward the tower.

Ingram ran up to Harper and crouched beside him. “They're shooting at us!”

“No shit.”

“Well, come on.” Ingram leapt over the side of the half-track and got into the pointer's seat of the quad .50. Harper followed five seconds later. “How do you work this thing,” Ingram yelled.

“Should be a foot treadle on your side. See it?” shouted Harper.

Ingram looked down. “Yeah.” He mashed it with his foot. A long burst roared out.

Bullets from the Russians began clanging against the half-track's armor-plated sides and the armor “flaps” on the sides of the gun mount.

“Okay,” yelled Harper. “I'll train right to left. You hose 'em down. Give it just one-to-two-second bursts. Should scare the living crap out of them.”

Harper cranked the mount to the right. Ingram peered through his sight, found his hand wheel, and dropped the gun barrels right on the skirmish line, now two hundred yards distant.

“Now!” yelled Harper.

Ingram hit the treadle. The mount roared. Dust and concrete filled the air. Bodies dropped. An arm spun away from a cloud of red mist. Harper trained a bit left. “Again!” he shouted.

Ingram fired at the Russians, now in full retreat and running frantically. Two or three dropped. The rest kept running.

Harper trained a little more left. “Give it to the bastards.”

“That's enough,” said Ingram.

“What?” demanded Harper.

“Let's save ammo, Sergeant. Now get over to that other half-track. See if you can start it and then follow me.”

It dawned on Harper what they had done: they were now in possession of one, possibly two, M-16 half-tracks. “Not a bad way to even the odds, Commander.”

“Not bad at all, Sergeant. Now get over there and see what you can do.”

“Yes, sir.” Harper leapt over the side and ran for the other half-track. He soon waved back. “Nine innings for this one, Commander. Electronics are all toasted.”

“Okay, let's go. But grab some ammo off that mount, if you can.”

“Yo!” Harper passed ammo cans to four of his Marines. In sixty seconds they were running back to Ingram's half-track and clambering on board.

Harper stayed behind to splash a five-gallon can of gasoline in the cockpit. Then he jumped out with grenade in hand and shouted, “Fire in the hole!” He pulled the pin, tossed a grenade in the damaged half-track, and ran for the other.

The explosion set off the fuel tank, and they all felt the heat of the blast. “Just to make sure the Commies don't get it running again,” Harper said.

“Good riddance,” said Ingram.

Harper pointed to one of his men, a redheaded corporal. “Ely, think you can drive this thing?”

The corporal grinned, “Have more hours in one of these than an M-4.”

“Then get this damn thing started and follow that airplane.” He pointed to the steering wheel.

“You bet, Ugly.” The corporal jumped in the driver's seat, hit the starter, and got the half-track going. He clanked it into gear and took off after the C-54. They soon caught up with the plane and passed it on the left side, waving to Radcliff as they went by.

Within two hundred yards of the tower Ingram noticed an irregular line of pillboxes and machine-gun nests well camouflaged with netting and brush. Further back were three artillery pieces, about 75 mm, he guessed. A few helmets bobbed up to look at him, but for the most part the defenders remained hidden behind sand berms and brush.

The half-track pulled up to the tower, a rickety three-story wooden building with all the windows shot out; Harper and his men jumped to the ground. “Fan out,” he ordered. “Uh, Commander, I'd recommend you stay here until we sort things out.”

They quickly formed a perimeter, with the C-54 taxiing into the middle. Ingram jumped from the half-track and walked over to the pilot's window.

Radcliff slid open his cockpit window and stuck out his head. “What's going on?”

Ingram gave a shrug and mouthed, “Wait one.”

The starboard hatch opened, the aluminum ladder dropped, and Hammer was down in an instant. Quickly, he ran under his starboard engines. He drew out a flashlight and shined it into the opened cowl flaps of number four, the outboard starboard engine.

Ingram walked over, finding it quieter on this side with both engines shut down. “What do you think?”

Hammer whipped off his cap and said, “If I was a bettin' man I'd say there's a chance with this one. Simply because we lost oil pressure, which means an oil leak. Can't tell, though, until I get the cowl off both of these and have a look-see.”

“Uh, Hammer, what if you get just one running? Can we still get out of here?”

“Pretty sure we can take off on three engines.”

“How about only two engines?”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh.”

“I'm hoping we can at least fix number four. That way we won't have too much torque from the port side.”

Ingram pointed off to the right. “Is that a revetment over there?”

“Looked like it from the cockpit, but there's a lot of junk in there. Could be stuff from burned-out aircraft.”

Berne walked up, a perplexed look on his face.

“What is it, Jon?”

He held up a notepad and flipped pages. “This from Okinawa, sir.” He read aloud, “‘Remain steadfast. Trying to send another C-54 but requires permission from USSR consulate. Under no circumstances are you to fire on USSR troops. Remember primary goal is to secure Boring.' It's signed ‘Neidemeier for Flannigan.'”

“Flannigan? Who's Flannigan?”

“Ask him,” said Berne. He nodded to Blinde, who was climbing down the ladder.

Ingram waited for Blinde to walk up and then demanded, “Who is this Flannigan guy?”

“My boss in Washington, D.C.” Blinde stared at him. “He's not going to be happy about what happened back there. We've really stirred up a hornet's nest.”

Ingram stood close. “Mr. Blinde, I don't have the time or the inclination for games. Those sons of bitches killed one of mine and wounded another. They shot at us on final approach, which could have resulted in a crash, probably fatal to us all. And they have seriously damaged this aircraft.”

“You don't understand. Someone was supposed to—”

“Supposed to what?”

“Meet us. Welcome us. Someone from the Red Army.”

“Fine, Mr. Blinde. Just fine.” Ingram waved around him. “Take a look at what's happened here. Instead of meeting us as you promised, your Russian friends fired on us, which could have killed us all, including your dead little ass. As a result, I'd say those people are not our friends. And since this whole snafu is my responsibility, I'm going to take every precaution, which includes killing more Communists if that's what's required. So, not that it matters, I ask again: Who is this Flannigan guy?”

“OSS.”

Ingram whipped off his hat. “What the hell is a Washington, D.C., bureaucrat doing screwing around with a firefight eight thousand miles away?”