Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

The odor of dead parts now mingled with a waterfall of sweat.

“Jarvis. Help me into Cherokee’s seat,” Quinn ordered.

“Yo.”

Grubb took off Quinn’s soaked bandage and replaced it.

“Grubb. I want you to stay up front. Turn the back cabin over to Ropo. Then snuggle in close to Jarvis. Jarvis, you read the instruments and point. Grubb, take my hand and place it on the proper levers. IV, you still there, buddy?”

“In a manner of .. .” IV gasped.

“Have you got the drill? Stop me if I’m making a bad move,” Quinn said.

Quinn made the mistake of reaching to give IV a pat. IV’s stomach seemed bubbling to explode. “If we can’t get this SCARAB up and away, I think we fight it out to the last man,” Quinn said to himself. “I’m not taking these men to an Iranian prison.” He punched the makeshift window. May not hold.

“Mercer, make a brace or a cross over the window out of a couple of machine-gun barrels.”

“/^ ^ ‘l “ Got it.

No Iranian had crossed the “I dare you” line in the courtyard, but distant curses could be heard from the survivors, reaching to their depths for valor, collecting weapons amid the devastation, and craving a rally.

The first shots rang over the courtyard, kicking up dirt near the

SCARAB.

“Ropo! Get all your TOW men out of the plane and give the Irans hellfire! Shoot up everything you’ve got! We need to buy ten minutes.”

IV grunted the checklist to Grubb, who quickly located the switches and levers and moved Quinn’s hand to them. . Doc Wheat had screwed down the tourniquet on Marsh’s leg, turned him over to Corpsman Lew, and skidded on blood to the forward cabin to ease the pressure bandage off IV He probed. “I need a bigger flashlight here!”

“Coming,” Mercer answered.

“Holy Motherl” screamed IV.

“Sulfa powder! Sulfa powder!” Wheat called, probing with forceps and fingers. “Geez pee se he cried, pulling out a piece of buckshot. “Sorry, buddy, I’ve got to cauterize you .. . don’t go into fucking shock on me. Who’s holding the flashlight?

“Give me the light and tell Corpsman Lew I need the hot needle, and a couple slugs of brandy, then put this clamp in his mouth to bite on.”

Outside, the Marine shoulder missiles laid rubble on rubble and broke up the Irans’ attempt to rally.

“We’re running low on TOWs!”

“Fire your clips till empty. There’s ammo ditched on the ground, right side of the craft.”

“In like Quinn,” Mercer said, pointing at the unconventional window brace.

“Kick it, hard,” Quinn ordered.

It held.

“IV.”

“Oh, piss, what?”

“If the ship doesn’t hold pressurization, how low do we have to fly?”

“Under ten thousand .. .” he groaned.

“Hot needle coming up!”

A barrage of automatic fire wiped out all other sounds. Quickly, everyone clamped on earphone sound deflectors.

“I’ve got your belly deadened best I can, IV, now drink this, then bite on your clamp. Go.”

Wheat applied the needle. IV arched up, screamed. Held in place by strong hands, he settled down and a smile crossed his sweaty, bloody, tortured face.

“Hey, Marine, good going,” Wheat said.

“Jarvis, can you punch in an alternate system and try to bring up the

CDU?”

“All the display panels and LED readouts were shattered by the cluster,” Jarvis answered.

“Do we have a radio?” Quinn asked.

“Negative.”

“Oh, Lord. Well, let’s see.” The head pain came on like a torrent until he had to bite his tongue and lower lip, hard. Come on, Quinn, for Christ’s sake, this is no time to pass out.

Jams.

“Yo.”

“Jarvis, wipe the blood out of my eyes, then have the closest two men to Barakat remove his gag and get his face up here. What’s our fuel reading?”

“No reading.”

Quinn quickly ran through the problem. He had ledge red the weight of each piece of equipment. If he subtracted all the missiles and bullets shot up, subtracted the approximate weight of the fuel used, he might get a round figure on remaining fuel. He gave the problem over the intercom.

“No questions, just answers,” he ordered.

It appeared they could get off the ground and fly ... how long was moot

.. .

Quinn mulled taking a run down the courtyard with the nacelles at seventy-five degrees to save fuel. No .. . madness. What if, out of fear of running out of fuel, we flew in helicopter mode and made a soft landing somewhere in Iran when the fuel ran out?

Fuck it! I’m going to take her high, put her into turboprop, and hope to God we can find the tanker. The decision had been made by Quinn. It would be better to crash than be captured.

Barakat’s sweating face was pushed close to Quinn. “Stop trembling, Barakat.”

“Am I friend or foe?” Barakat asked.

“Damned if I know, but your ass belongs to us now. You going to help us get out of here?”

“I try, I try.”

“I’ve got a totally FUBAR display and systems.”

“Try your altimeter,” IV moaned.

Grubb switched the dials on. “Got a reading.”

“Barakat, we’ve got two field compasses and a paper map. The altimeter appears to be working. I am going to fly by the stars. I want you to draw me a flight route for a rendezvous with a tanker at thirty-one-forty latitude and fifty-eight-twenty long.”

“I try, but even if we reach it, how do we contact them?”

“Phosphorous. Take the seat behind me and go to work.

“All hands, everyone in?”

“This is Ropo. All present and accounted for. Ramp is lifted.”

A horrendous shriek from Marsh as his leg was cut away. For an instant the action diminished, then a resumption.

Quinn pitched the blade angles. He wiggled his feet on the rudder controls, daintily almost, as though he were stepping into the batter’s box. He maneuvered the joystick. It felt solid. We’ll find out.

“Barakat.”

“Sir.”

“How high do we have to go to clear these mountains?”

“About nine thousand meters.”

Fourteen thousand feet! It would be borderline on oxygen use. Oxygen would help them now at any altitude. What the hell. No use saving it.

“All hands! This is Quinn. We’ve got every chance in the world to make it home. Prayers will help. Try to stay off oxygen, but use it if you feel like you’re going under.”

Random gunfire popped around the plane. Quinn checked to see if the rotors were properly engaged and whatever preflight instructions he could get from IV, who was sinking and rallying.

Quinn speeded the rotors to maximum, kicked off the hover brake, and reached for the thrust control on IV’s side. He could not properly reach it.

“Jarvis! Crawl in and push the thrust control forward. Try not to touch IV.”

“Aye, aye.”

The SCARAB shot straight up.

“Oh, God, my leg is gone!”

“Quinn,” gasped IV, “trim the nacelle to forty-five degrees .. . ugh ..

. fool with the blade angle, you’ll hear it when it’s right.”

“Grubb, put my hand on the nacelle or roto-tilt levers.”

“Yeah.”

“This is IV,” he said, with his stomach half opened. “I feel like I’m in good shape.”