Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“I am locked on the headquarters building and need minimal adjustments to target officers billet and enlisted barracks. Give me ten seconds between racks.”

“Jesus,” Dogbreath said softly, “they’re all asleep down there.”

“Cherokee, this is Quinn. Take her up another few hundred feet so I can get a better visual.”

“Rotors at eighty-five degrees. We are in helicopter mode.”

As the SCARAB drifted over the fort wall, Quinn’s fingers unlocked the bomb-rack releases. If Dogbreath’s bombs were working, they’d follow the laser beam into the target.

Quinn squeezed the bomb release. “God forgive me,” he whispered. Even as the missiles hurled down on the first sleeping target, he had lined up his second target.

Everything turned into slow motion, as if moving in a dream—clouds billowed, thunder, blinding light, and madly careening air.

The pulsating waves of air billowed before a stiff wind.

“Quinn, this is Cherokee. Hold your second rack. I’m taking her up some or we’ll start shaking like a dog shitting peach seeds.”

“Yo.”

The SCARAB caught the tail end of the blast, and it shook her. Little bits of the mud buildings sent up a shower of debris, pelting the craft.

“This is Quinn. I’m locked on the arsenal.”

“This is Cherokee. I need another minute and a half—“

“Novinski, this is Dogbreath. Can you confirm that there is only a little panic activity near the installations?”

“Novinski to Dogbreath. They’re running around in circles, not even armed.”

“Cherokee to Quinn. You are free to release the balance of your racks.”

“Two fired .. . three fired .. . four fired.”

Fort Urbakkan jumped and rocked and broke apart, leveled to the ground, a deep hole gouged from the site of the arsenal.

One end of the courtyard filled up with pajama-clad, screaming, kneeling, quivering men, like ants trying to scurry from boiling water.

“Novinski, Quinn, IV ... how many Irans down there?”

“Fifty, maybe more.”

“They’re still climbing out of the rubble. Seventy-five,” Quinn reckoned.

“I’d say fifty,” IV said.

For the first time since the mission began, Dogbreath blinked. He froze time to get the words out of him .. . “Dogbreath to Quinn. Fire all cluster bombs.”

The scene below became a horror of Irans being showered with hundreds of thousands of razor bits of steel and exploding ball bearings.

“Dogbreath to Cherokee. Land her as far away from those people as we can and as close to that tower as we can get.”

Aye, aye.

“Attention, all hands, this is Dogbreath. We are descending to land.

It appears that we have neutralized our primary targets.”

The RAM people were so glad to be getting out of the SCARAB, they forgot fear for the moment. The plane touched down softly, sending up a small billow of dust. Ramp down!

<(T , t \

Lets go!

Twenty Marines poured out at high port and split off. Marsh’s squad made for the tower while Grubb set up a perimeter in front of the SCARAB. Meeting no opposition, Grubb moved his men carefully down the courtyard.

They saw the enemy! Survivors crawling out of the rubble some fell to their knees and pleaded not to be killed while others held up white flags of surrender.

“Grubb to Dogbreath.”

“Yo.”

“I’ve got maybe forty, fifty Irans trying to surrender.”

Dogbreath grunted, about to give an order to kill them. There were no contingency plans for prisoners. Unless we take them down, they might organize for a suicide charge ... a couple of lucky shots and the SCARAB could be hit in a vital spot.

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Have your people fire over their heads and advance down yard. Try to herd them back into the far end. If and only if you detect hostile gunfire or they make any gesture toward us, cut them down.”

The Marines moved their perimeter a bit farther, then a bit farther.

The raid had reached its critical moments. It was going too smoothly, Jeremiah thought. Nothing can shoot and maneuver like this! First blip. An Iranian machine-gun squad was creeping atop the west wall. Grubb ordered his night-vision, shoulder firing TOW gunner to lay one on. He did. Out in the courtyard the Irans seemed to get the RAM communication and backpedaled.

Moment of truth.

“Dogbreath to Ropo. What’s going on?”

“Ropo, can’t talk.”

Dogbreath now tensed from the torture of not knowing if Bandar Barakat had been located and was alive.

Ropo crept up a circular staircase that must have been built for midgets. His team struggled behind him like a toy train taking a sharp curve. Muffle the fucking grunts!

Ropo’s hand reached for the next step. No step there. He patted the

floor. He had reached a landing. Ropo wormed himself onto it in a

sitting position, back against the wall; he held his gun at the ready

and flicked on a flashlight to locate the apartment door. He felt a

presence. Ropo looked up to see a fat man standing over him with a pistol a few inches from his head, and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the flashlight was kicked from his hands. Barakat!

The man said something in Farsi.

“Barakat,” Ropo said loudly, “if you shoot me, you’re dead.”

“Israelis?” asked the fat man.

“We’re from Mars,” Ropo answered, tempted to grab Barakat’s ankles and dump him.

The conversation could be heard over the command network. Those in the SCARAB sweated. The Marine below Ropo had inched to the platform but could see next to nothing. Barakat’s uneven breath became ponderous.

“Where are your guards?” Ropo asked.

“I shot them the instant I heard the bombs.”

“Can I turn on my flashlight and talk?”

The Marine behind Ropo shined a light into Barakat’s face. Ropo slammed his forearm into Barakat’s knee, sending him crashing. He fired.

“Oh, God, no!” Duncan whispered as he heard the report of the bullet.

“We’ve got him! We’ve got him. We’ll be back in seven or eight minutes.”

Jeremiah Duncan allowed himself to decompress for the first time since receiving orders to fly to Washington. No joy, no elation, no sense of final victory. Duncan, a religious man when unseen by others, nodded to God in thanks for seeing things his way this time. Novinski, Quinn, and IV reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Jeremiah accepted the touch, hunched his shoulders, and cracked his neck.

The old Marine allowed himself a moment of self-satisfaction. Jesus, he thought, all the years of planning, how many years? Forty?

Planning maneuvers, raids, battles, campaigns. Now at last was a

close-to-perfect operation. At least, up to this point. It seemed

like something went always awry after the first shots were exchanged,

and it usually boiled down to every Marine improvising with the man on his left and right to win their piece of turf. This was sublime!

“Quinn to Novinski. What kind of read can you get on your display of the courtyard?”

“Novinski here. Marsh’s squad at ten o’clock from west wall to one-third of courtyard. Grubb’s people making a move back toward SCARAB. Separation between Marines and Irans is at least sixty yards. Hold it, hold everything, something’s lying on the deck about twenty yards behind Marsh’s squad.”

“What?”

“Quinn to Dogbreath! I see it, too! Unexploded bomb!”

“This is Grubb. I see it loud and clear.”

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Can you read the stripes?”

“Black and blue, a cluster bomb!”

“Dogbreath to Grubb. Stop! You are ordered not to throw yourself on that bomb. It won’t help. Pull Marsh’s squad back, dump your ammo and missiles as planned for weight reduction. Marsh.”