The Watchman (26 page)

Uncertain what I wanted to do with my life after college, I joined the Marines, newly commissioned as First Lieutenant. Political tensions in the Middle East escalated, and I found myself on the way to Kuwait. The third week there, my unit received orders to join a detachment inside Iraq territory.

In the predawn darkness, me and a crew of four jarheads, gathered on the tarmac to await our ride. Right on schedule, a CH53 Sea Stallion helicopter picked us up just as the desert sun caught fire in the eastern sky.

An hour later, deep inside the province, we started our descent somewhere near Tikrit. Easy going until alarms inside the cockpit went crazy. The pilot shouted and banked the chopper almost knocking me from my seat. I leaned forward and screamed in his ear, “What's wrong?”

He yelled, “A SCUD just locked on.” His brow froze in a fierce scowl, and I knew the CH53 couldn't avoid the hit. The pilot tried to radio our position as he maneuvered the chopper closer to the ground. From my position in the cockpit, I watched in dry-mouth terror as the surface-to-air missile streaked toward us.

I shouted to the men in the rear of the craft. “Missile incoming!”

An immediate burst of activity erupted behind me as seat straps flew open and they prepared for the crash.

We were about twenty feet from the ground when the rocket struck and clipped off the 53's tail. No explosion, the tail just fell off. Miracle of miracles, the missile hadn't exploded. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as it traveled a thousand yards to the right and buried its nose in a hill of sand.

A Scud dud from God.

Seconds before the missile made contact, I released my seatbelt and jumped from the aircraft behind the door gunner. Anticipating the impact, I bent my legs and rolled as I hit the sand dune below. A fire started at the rear of the helicopter just before it hit the sand. Wreckage rained around me and bounced like hailstones from the blackened sky.

I struck the ground hard. The impact pushed the air from my lungs. As I sucked oxygen back into my body, I realized none of the men were moving. The four Marines who'd jumped with me lay among the debris still and wounded.

A sear of pain in my right leg got my attention. The adrenalin rush after the crash postponed the pain and now shuddered up my spine like a living thing. I sat down in the sand, and gingerly felt the ankle. The bone was broken. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, pushed the bone back in place, and then laced the boot tighter to prevent swelling and to support my foot. In agony, I fashioned a makeshift splint from wreckage parts and secured it to the outside of the boot with my belt. Crude splint in place, I hobbled through the debris in search of the pilot.

Time froze and seconds inched forward like hours. I scanned the ground and realized the pilot must be trapped inside the chopper. Flames reached high into the sky from where the aircraft tail used to be. The fire hadn't reached the cockpit, but smoke hung thick and black—impossible to see inside.

I said a prayer, took a deep breath, and plunged inside the darkened cockpit. Hot metal stung as my hands brushed against the hull. In the blackness, my fingers touched a shirt collar. I grabbed a tight hold, pulled the pilot from the seat, and backed out into daylight— lungs bursting for air.

The pilot showed no signs of respiration, but a faint pulse fluttered under my fingertips. I put my CPR training into practice. After the third series of air and pressure, he coughed up black smoke, struggling to breathe. His condition stabilized, I checked him for injuries. His right leg was broken and a bloody gash rested over his left eye. A one-man triage unit, I classified him as stable and moved on to the next injured Marine.

The first priority was to get them as far away from the wreckage as possible. No easy task, but the probability the aircraft might explode gave me extra incentive. Once they lay a safe distance from the wreckage, I checked their wounds. Repeated attempts to arouse them failed, which was probably a blessing. With an assortment of broken bones and burns, consciousness would bring a lot of pain.

Again, I searched the wreckage for medical supplies. Under a piece of the broken tail, I found two extra canteens, but the first aid kits hadn't made it.

I moved through the soldiers once more, checking vital signs. They carried bottled water in their pant cargo pockets, and I poured sips of water over parched lips and then stabilized the broken bones as best I could. The burns would have to wait.

The situation looked bleak even for a combat veteran, and I was still a rookie. All the radio equipment went down inside the 53. The helicopter and phones had GPS capabilities, but by this time, they had become metal soup. None of the men could walk out, and for certain, I couldn't carry them. Not to mention the nearby SCUD—a ticking time bomb. Rescue lay in the hope that U.S. troops would see the smoke from the wreckage.

Never imagine a situation can't get worse.

The roar of engines sounded long before the vehicles came into view over the rise. My hopes soared as I hid behind a sand dune and watched.

Someone
had
seen the smoke. I recognized the Republican Guard emblem on the trucks and groaned. Not what I'd prayed for. We had crashed behind the Iraqi battle lines, and all the fire power I had rested in my sidearm.

Article Two of the Code of Conduct ran through my mind. “I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender my men while they still have the means to resist.”

That was the sticking point. My men didn't have “the means to resist,” but I was still conscious and had my pistol. I could commit suicide and follow the code to the letter or wait and pick a fight on my terms.

I waited. Time was on my side.

Within minutes, two Jeeps and four trucks surrounded the crash site.

After taking our weapons, the soldiers loaded my injured men into the back of a truck and shoved me in after them. An Iraqi colonel spotted the unexploded missile and yelled. Panic knows no language barrier. The column lurched forward leaving a massive cloud of sand in our wake. Three or four clicks later, we came to a halt—safely out of range.

A loud debate ensued outside my metal prison. I guessed the topic. The winds of war had shifted to our side, and the soldiers didn't know what to do with us.

Heat inside the metal vehicle soared to unbearable heights as the truck remained motionless. The soldiers confiscated our bottles and canteens. The men wouldn't last long without water and medical attention.

It was time to make my move. Invisible, I emerged outside on the sand.

The exterior proved a great deal cooler; at least it didn't burn my lungs when I breathed. I counted twelve soldiers, two involved in the ongoing debate while the others looked on. The water truck sat ten feet due east—the best place for an ambush.

Still invisible, I rushed to the water supply and waited.

Even with my bad leg, the first Iraqi never knew what hit him. I grabbed him from behind, rendered him unconscious, and then took his weapon. Within minutes, I had eight of our captors locked inside one of their trucks. When I confronted the last four, they surrendered without a fight. In hindsight, I think they felt safer with me than with their satanic leader.

Weapons confiscated, I locked three of the remaining troops in the cargo hold with their comrades. One of my injured men revived, held an M16 on the colonel, and ordered him to drive the vehicle to the nearest U.S. base camp. I followed behind in the truck with the injured Marines.

Dusk had fallen when we arrived at the American facility, and I gladly turned the enemy soldiers over to the military police. As they led the colonel away, he turned to me and asked, in perfect English, “How did you escape from the truck?”

I straightened and grinned at him. “New secret weapon.”

A little propaganda wouldn't hurt our cause.

Out of the fading light, medics surrounded me, the wounded soldiers, and the pilot. Early next morning, they shipped us to our base in Germany for more intensive care.

Weeks later, my grandmother looked on while the Secretary of the Navy pinned the Navy Cross on my uniform. He cited me for, “distinguished heroic and meritorious service achievement while serving in the Marine Corps in connection with military operations against an enemy of the United States.”

The pilot, whose last-minute maneuvers saved our lives, was my friend George Thomas.

 

 

 

 

22

 

Rapid Bend, California

From the cockpit's front row seat, giant white fingers of wind and snow held back the plane, impeding our mission to rescue Cody. Panel lights in the cockpit cast a green glow onto George's dark skin, and his grim face added to my apprehension.

“How bad is it?”

He cut his gaze across the space between us. “You better pray the wing de-icers work.”

I did what the man said.

Almost an hour behind schedule and emotionally whipped, we bumped down the frozen runway at the small Rapid Bend Airport. If my calculations were right, Marshall reached the lodge an hour before.

A well-lighted hanger beckoned, and George taxied toward the metal building. An attendant left the tiny terminal, hurried over, and hand-guided George to a parking spot. The clerk scurried back to the warmth of the office.

We scrambled out of the cockpit, never happier to feel terra firma beneath our feet. I slapped George on the back and he echoed a nervous chuckle over the storm's tempo.

Dim exterior lights blinked through the flakes, but the terminal and airfield appeared empty. One lone vehicle, barely visible in the faint glow, sat in front of the building adjacent to the hanger.

No police vehicles in sight.

Weather conditions on the ground looked worse than in the air. All things being equal, the possibility existed that the sheriff and Ben Marshall lagged behind us.

After unloading the bike, we joined the attendant inside the terminal.

He watched us move in close to the pellet store in the corner. “You guys must like to live dangerously to be out in this storm.”

“Can't say I like it, but we had no choice.” I said. “Any idea where Harold London's place is located?”

“I met London once, but he hasn't been around for a long time. Don't know exactly where he lives. Let me check around.” After a few calls, the attendant scratched a rough map on the back of a computer printout while I peered over his shoulder. He handed me the crude directions, and I punched them into my jacket pocket and turned to George. “I'm going on ahead. Try to contact the sheriff and hurry him along. He may have set up roadblocks. Hopefully the local boys stopped Marshall on the way in, and I'll have taken a long, cold ride for no reason. You've got my cell number?”

“Yeah, good luck with that in this weather, and in these mountains.” George followed me to the bike and patted my sleeve. “You be careful. Don't take stupid chances.”

“Don't go soft on me. Be assured. I don't have a death wish.”

George started toward the terminal—turned back as if to say something. If he spoke, the wind swallowed his words. He yanked the collar of his leather flight jacket close under his ears and went into the terminal.

Pulling the ski mask from my pocket, I tugged it over my face and kicked started the motorcycle. The bike roared like an unleashed animal as I left the shelter of the hanger and rode into the fierceness of the storm.

For the first mile, the motorbike wavered clumsily until I got the rhythm right. It took less time to realize I wasn't dressed for an excursion into the merciless elements trying to hold me back. Under most conditions, thermal clothing and my jacket would have been enough, but tonight they felt like shirtsleeves.

Vicious winds almost made me miss the lodge turnoff marked on the attendant's map. I swerved the bike hard left onto an ice-rutted gravel road that made my teeth tap dance. My best guess-timate put the cabin two miles off the main path.

I stopped a little more than a half mile in. The wind howled, and the bike felt as heavy as an eighteen-wheeler. Still, I managed to shove it out of sight into the roadside brush. Bent against an oncoming wind, I trudged up the path toward the lodge.

The moon had taken a holiday, and I longed for the pair of night glasses resting undisturbed in a closet at home. Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

I trudged the last quarter-mile in darkness—didn't want to use my invisibility until I reached the cabin. My mind calculated the odds that if I couldn't see the cabin through the snow and wind, Marshall couldn't see me.

Soon the outline of a building loomed ahead. Patches of light peeked through the shadowy silhouette. Out of the ocean of blackness behind me, car lights flickered, and the distinctive sound of a high-performance engine reached across the stillness over the wind's angry yowl.

The sheriff, or Marshall?

A quick dive onto the roadside ditch landed me in a deep snow-filled ravine. I sank like a rock in the deep drift. Head low, I brushed snow from my nose and mouth and realized the heavy bulge in my jacket had disappeared. My gun had slipped into the three-foot-deep powder surrounding me. I scrambled around in the wet cold and kicked myself mentally.

Stupid. Stupid.

A car whizzed by and clarified my dilemma.

It wasn't the authorities.

I didn't have time to search for the gun. Gusts whipped white powder down the gully as I charged up the road to the cabin.

My hunch had paid off.

Ben Marshall was behind the wheel. He parked his black Mercedes beside a snowmobile. With rapid movements, he jerked the back door open, reached inside and hefted Cody into his arms—asleep, or something more lethal?

I couldn't tell. Invisible, I followed them inside.

Marshall opened the door with one hand. Light and warmth gushed from inside. Had Marshall already arrived, then left? That didn't seem possible. He strode to the sofa and dumped the boy's limp body on the cushions. Cody's head bounced as it hit the throw pillow.