The day after: An apocalyptic morning (160 page)

              "Jack..." Skip started.

              "You need to trust me, Skip," Jack told him. "You've always been the one to treat me like I was a man, even when I wasn't acting like one. You treated me that way from the very start, back when I was crying over my mom and dad next to that camper and I really was just a kid. You stood up for me in front of Jessica, in front of the other women in town, in front of everyone. Don't start treating me like a baby now." He leaned even closer, his voice softening. "Let me fly this thing," he said. "If you help me, I can do it. We might crash, but I think we stand a better chance with me doing it than having both of us try to monkey the damn pedals together."

              Skip looked at him, at the serious expression on his face, in his eyes. Jack wasn't even old enough to shave yet. He hadn't even reached his full adult height yet. But was he a man? Was he old enough to give a subjective assessment of his own abilities independent of the desires of youth? Was he?

              "Skip, I can do it."

              Skip let out a breath, letting his head hang down for a minute. He looked back up. "Get this thing refueled and get Steve to put the doors back on," he said. "And then, while Paul is loading up the casualties, you can help me over to the other chair. We take off in fifteen minutes."

              Jack could not prevent the grin from spreading across his face. "You got it, Skip," he said, standing up. "We'll lift off in fifteen." He hopped out and began sprinting towards the fuel truck and Steve's shack.

              Paul and Skip both watched him go. "Do you really think that's a wise decision?" Paul asked carefully.

              "No," Skip said, shaking his head a little. "But he made a very good point. His way is about the safest option that we've got."

              Stu was looking at the trench that his forces had just managed to capture. He couldn't help but be impressed by it. "This has got to be the work of our friend Skip," he told Stinson, who was tagging along just behind him. "No bitch would have thought of something like this. Only someone with military experience could have supervised the construction of this thing."

              "I suppose," Stinson said almost shortly. He had been through a little too much in the last hour to be concerned about who had built the trench. "They surely pounded the shit out of us from here though."

              "Yes," Stu said with a nod. "It all makes sense now. He put trenches at the first line of defense to keep the bitches that are shooting at us safe from fire. He probably hit on the only fucking way there was to keep them from bolting the first time we shot back. Even so, they fled like the wind once we started to close and take some of them out."

              "How many did we kill?" Stinson asked.

              "Three bodies in the trenches that we took so far," Stu said. "There's also one towards the front that Lima's people hit when they were in that stupid-ass shootout with the group that was running away." He shook his head in disgust. "I still can't believe that he stood there and shot at them when he could have just gone around the other side of the hill and hit them from close range. I'm going to demote his ass for that. Make him a Goddamn private again and put him on point."

              Stinson looked at him with unmasked contempt. "I wouldn't be too hard on him," he said. "Sometimes its kind of difficult to make rational decisions when people are shooting at you and killing your men. Especially as tired as we all are."

              Stu wasn't buying this. "That's what our job is," he said. "And I expect better decisions than that. First he loses his golden opportunity, and then he gets half of his fucking men shot by that Goddamn chopper. Jesus, what a moron."

              Stinson dismissed the subject of Lima, having passed the point where he really gave a shit. "What about the chopper?" he asked instead. "What do you think was up with that weird shit it was doing?" They had all seen the Garden Hill helicopter climb up to altitude and go into a very wide circle around the battle area and the town. After circling for several minutes, it had straightened out and then tried to hover, but had not been able to. For a moment it seemed that the thing was going to spin out of control and come crashing to the ground. But then it had sped back up and began to circle again. Finally, it had slowed up once more, going into a shaky looking hover for a few moments, and then had turned to the south and disappeared from sight.

              "I think that one of Lima's guys managed to hit it," Stu said. "Obviously the thing was having some sort of mechanical problem that they were trying to deal with. Maybe the tail got hit or maybe one of the controls is out. Either way, it looked like they were having a lot of trouble keeping the thing under control. They might not have even been able to land it. My guess is that that chopper is out of the fight whether it landed or not, and good fucking riddance. We'll have a much easier time taking that town if they don't have a means of seeing us when we advance or dropping that napalm on us."

              "Taking the town?" Stinson asked. "You still think we have a shot at that? I lost twenty-eight men charging this trench. How many did Lima lose?"

              Stu shook his head again. "That asshole lost thirty-eight, including the five that the chopper took out. That leaves him with eighteen. Obviously we'll have to combine forces into one large attack."

              Stinson did some mental addition - something that wasn't terribly easy considering his fatigue level. "That means we have forty-six men to make an assault," he said once he had the figure. "That's less than I had to take this one trench."

              "Don't forget the ten able bodies from my covering platoon," Stu reminded him. "That brings us back up to fifty-six again. That should be more than enough to take the town now that we've cleared the trenches out. The rest should be pretty much a cakewalk, especially considering the fact that they won't have the chopper any more to help direct them."

              "You don't think they have any more trenches?" Stinson asked doubtfully.

              Stu scoffed at the very notion. "It takes time to build a trench like this," he said. "Especially if your workers are a bunch of bitches. What do you think they did, spent the last month digging fucking trenches on every Goddamn hill around the town?" He shook his head condescendingly. "No, they only could've done this on the first line on the most likely approaches. We just made the mistake of advancing through the easiest area. That's the disadvantage to not having air assets - you can't recon shit like this."

              "So we're going forward again?" Stinson asked.

              "Of course we are," Stu said forcefully. "There's no other option. And now that that chopper is damaged, there's a good chance we might be able to capture it and our friend Skip intact. If we're lucky, the chopper will be repairable and we'll be able to use it for ourselves."

              "If we're lucky," Stinson echoed, sighing as he said it. "What about the men? They've been through an awful lot. I'm not sure they're... well... motivated to try this again."

              "They'll do what the fuck they're told or they'll be shot on the spot," Stu said roughly. "Now let's start shifting everyone over to here. We'll reorganize again and then we'll start to move in ninety minutes from now. And just to show everyone that the worst is over, I will personally lead this assault."

              It took Steve about ten minutes to put the doors back on the helicopter - about five minutes faster than it usually took Skip and Jack working together to do it. While he was doing that Jack drove the fuel truck over and filled up the helicopter's tank with fresh jet fuel. Skip continued to sit in the pilot's seat while all of this was going on. His knee was still screaming at him quite loudly but he tried his best to ignore it as he talked on the radio to his field commanders.

              "The last look I got of them," he told them on the VHF band, "they were still scattered around pretty good. They were in possession of the two outside trench complexes but the original group near the rear was still back there. You guys mauled them pretty good, probably fifty percent casualties. It'll be at least an hour, maybe more, before they can regroup and try again."

              "I copy, Skip," Mick, the commander of the ground forces, replied. "We're all in position now and we're expecting our replacements out here soon. Confirming they're on their way?"

              "They just left five minutes ago," Skip assured him. " Christine's squad lost two of their weapons during the final pullback so I only sent out enough to cover every gun. I loaded them up with extra ammo though."

              "Good," Mick said. "We should be all right as long as they attack us on somewhat the same path as before. We're pretty well spread out here. It would be nice if we could get you back in the air for us before that happens though. It's not real fun down here not knowing what they're doing."

              "We're going to be leaving for a wounded run in just a few minutes," Skip assured him, leaving out the part about how Jack was going to be flying. "With any luck we'll be back within forty-five to an hour. That should get us overhead again before they can make their next attack. If not, you're just going to have to wing it. Do you think you're up for it?"

              "I guess I'll have to be," Mick said. "I'll talk to you when you get back."

              "Good luck to you," Skip said. "Not that you'll need it."

              Before he could sign off, Christine came on the air. "Skip," she said. "How are you doing? How's your leg?"

              "I'm hanging in here," he told her, putting a note of nonchalance into his tone. "Don't worry about me. Just worry about keeping those assholes back."

              "Is the bleeding stopped?" she asked, insisting upon worrying about him. "Will you be able to fly okay?"

              "Paul wrapped me up nice and tight," Skip answered. "And I can guarantee that the flight won't bother it any worse than it's being bothered now. Just put me out of your mind. I'll be back overhead soon."

              "Copy," she said slowly. It was obvious that she could sense something was not right but she mentioned it no further.

              "And no more heroics," he told her sternly.

              "No more heroics," she agreed.

              No sooner had Jack finished the fueling process than Paul and his helpers began to bring the wounded out. They were wheeled one by one across the parking lot on the homemade gurney. Rhonda was the first one. She was barely conscious, obviously well doped-up, and had a large bandage over her chest. Her breathing was very ragged and sounded very wet, her face was pale, almost ashen in color. An IV had been started on her and was running down into her arm. Since there was not room for three people to lie down in the back, she was forced into a sitting position against the back wall.

              Megan Flitcroff was next. She was even worse looking than Rhonda. Megan had been shot in the center of her chest during the first stages of the assault on Mick's position. Though it seemed her lungs had been spared, some vital organ or vessel had been severed somewhere in there. She was completely unconscious, her breathing fast and shallow. Two IVs had been installed in her arms and Paul had already run in three liters of fluid in a vain attempt to keep her blood pressure above 80/20. She was forced, by virtue of her lack of consciousness of any kind, to lie down on the floor. It was somewhat cramped and her feet ended up between the two front seats.

              The last gravely wounded person to be loaded up was Sarah, Steve's wife. She had taken one in the right side of her chest and, like Rhonda, was obviously suffering from a collapsing lung in addition to blood loss from internal damage. She was fully conscious but having considerable trouble with her breathing. Her pale skin was soaked in sweat and her chest heaved up and down with the effort of respiration. She had an IV as well and she also had a catheter in her chest to help relieve the pressure that was building up from the leaking air. Steve, who had been standing in the background until this point, rushed over and wept over her as she was loaded up.

              "I'll... be... okay..." she panted to him, kissing his face and offering him a hug. "A little... trip... to... the doctor... is all."

              "I'll see you later," he said, sniffing as he returned the hug. "Do you understand?"

              "I do," she said. "And I will. That's a promise."

              Sarah, like Rhonda, was forced up against the back of the chopper in a sitting position. Steve gave her one last kiss and then allowed the door to be closed upon them.

              "All right," Skip said, looking at Paul and Jack, who were standing outside in the rain. "I guess it's my turn."

              "I guess it is," Paul said.

              Paul, Jack, and Steve, all working together, carefully lifted him out of the right side seat and carried him around the nose of the aircraft to the front. He screamed a few times as his leg was jostled up and down during the trip and a few more as they maneuvered him into the observer's chair. Paul used a pillow to prop up his leg in the most comfortable position but even so the pain was tremendous.

              "War sucks," Skip said through gritted teeth as Jack climbed into the pilot's seat.