Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“I’d like to continue,” Quinn pressed, “as long as I feel okay.”

He felt that even in his state he had more stamina than the lawyer, who was near yelping in frustration.

“I take it that you and General Duncan were quite friendly.”

“We worked very closely. A lot of formality was dropped. However, our relationship was by the book.”

“You visited his home often?”

“General Duncan’s office traveled with him, in his head, in his briefcase, in the trunk of his car. The office was open for business twenty-four hours a day. He called, I came.”

“And you had dinner together?”

“He fed his dogs as well.”

“At the table?”

“What the hell has this got to do with the raid on Urbakkan?”

“I’m coming to that,” Zacco rumbled, sensing his first taste of blood. “You saw movies together, shot a round of golf with him now and then?”

“May I intercede?” Brickhouse interceded. “General Duncan found Quinn O’Connell to be the best young prospect for a high command that he had ever seen. I’d say, with the amount of responsibility Jeremiah laid on, probably they were closer as friends—and don’t forget, in this kind of unit, the very fine line between officer and enlisted man often blurs.”

“I am suggesting,” Zacco said, “you two were close enough that if you survived him, which you have, you’d do anything to protect his record.”

Quinn saw foul men and their foul tactics. He could do little but glare as he watched Senator Lightner cock his head waiting for his attack dog to strike.

“You wouldn’t lie for General Duncan,” Zacco said, “or cover up out of your deep respect and personal friendship?”

Quinn felt his hands grip the arms of his chair, and he started to rise. Sit down! he ordered himself, sit fucking down, Quinn!

“Like flying to Vegas in a government helicopter to keep a hot date?”

“That is most disgusting,” Brickhouse exclaimed. “Don’t answer it, Gunner.”

“Now, gentlemen,” cooed Lightner, “I do believe it is within counsel’s

purview to establish that if, in Duncan’s position of unlimited power

without accountability, he might have crossed the line and taken

advantage—“

“Of what?” Quinn snapped. “Taxpayers’ dollars? It’s clear what you two are trying to do. I don’t know how low you plan to take this, but I don’t rat on a fellow Marine on matters that are none of your fucking business.”

They had him.

“I’ve only a few more questions,” Zacco said eagerly. “These homemade cluster bombs. You helped Duncan concoct them?”

“We worked with the finest munitions and ordnance people in the country. The weight of the men, the weight of the bombs, the titanium wings, were all factored in to make the plane lighter.”

“This was not a safe bomb,” Zacco accused.

“It was as safe as we could make it. We tested over a hundred of them successfully.”

“But it was not a safe bomb because it exploded at the wrong time and killed five Marine officers. Gunner, they were killed by an American cluster bomb, were they not?”

unpl >j

1 hey were.

“And you were wounded by the same bomb.”

“Yes.”

“Friendly fire,” the counselor snapped.

Hang on, Quinn, he compelled himself. Look at him in his rat’s eyes.

But stay calm, bubba. Quinn shrugged. “That’s a stupid expression. It’s the biggest oxymoron in the language. There is no such thing as friendly fire—safe bombs.”

“It is a term commonly used to denote death at the hands of one’s own people.”

“The bomb was my responsibility,” Quinn said. “I will take the blame.”

The ash fell from Senator Lightner’s cigarillo.

Zacco looked confused. “Would you care to explain that?” he mumbled.

“Sure. From the design to the installation to the firing, it was my baby. I checked the bomb racks at the Tikkah Air Base. They appeared secure. That was proved by the wild flight to Urbakkan. We flew at various altitudes, and the plane was nearly shaken to pieces. No bombs went off. If one had exploded, it would have been the end game You see, Mr. Zacco, you work with your people and your equipment to the best of your human capability, and then you have to trust. The Marine Corps is built on trust.”

A silence followed. Quinn was dead calm, his eyes fixed on the lawyer.

The lawyer didn’t like it.

“Shall I continue?”

Vito Vincent Zacco nodded cautiously.

“Between Tikkah Air Base and Fort Urbakkan, some glitch developed in

bomb rack four. Could have been the plane shaking violently, drastic

changes in temperature, perhaps a little ping of some sort of debris which was flying at us as we crossed closely over the ridge tops. I got no indication of a problem on the display panels or gauges.”

Lightner was transfixed. Zacco was confused.

“We positioned ourselves to fire,” Quinn said. “I had under a minute to unload the missile racks. One bomb obviously veered off course and fell short in the courtyard. It was too small for our FLIR to pick up, and we didn’t even sight it until the end of the raid. We moved our people away from the bomb, but she went off. Next half hour, forty minutes, was spent in ankle-deep blood, brains and guts on the ceiling, an amputation and a copilot with his guts about to spill out... we needed to patch a window .. . with Barakat’s knowledge of the terrain and IV’s courage, we made our rendezvous with the tanker plane .. . and after that ... IV stayed alive and instructed me for over two thousand miles .. . that was five and a half hours from the time we left the fort. When I touched down on the helipad of our container ship and cut the engines, IV died instantly.”

Zacco knew that when the fourth version of this insane story was told, Quinn would riddle himself with contradictions. He had the goods now to blame Quinn for the friendly-fire bomb.

“The bomb was my responsibility,” Quinn said, entirely taking the wind out of both inquisitors.

Senator Lightner had a rare moment of shame and disgust for himself. Zacco had been stripped of his congressional right to bully. He knocked on the table in successive knocks. “I have a feeling you have something more to tell me, Gunner.”

“Yeah, I sure do,” Quinn said with a lowered voice. “You’re a necrophilic, a corpse fucker. Now, get out of my sight.”

“Mr. Zacco,” the senator creamed reflectively, “the gunner has been through a tremendous ordeal. I suggest his remark was made in the heat of the moment. Kindly wait outside.”

The senator crushed an empty cigarillo box, tried but was unable to say something to Quinn. Quinn called for Mandy, waiting just beyond the door, who wheeled him away.

Now the scornful eyes of Commandant Brickhouse fell on Lightner. “I don’t think we’d better have a hearing on this,” the senator said. “I’m not going to tangle with Gunner Quinn.”

TROUBLESOME MESA, 1980

Oh, what a glorious valley. It echoed in a sound that said, “peace.”

Dan O’Connell was neither able to drive a car nor ride in the saddle. The first time Quinn swooped him up into his arms and set him in the passenger side, the two looked at each other, wordless but rich with joy. Neither of them ever said, “I’m sorry.” Dan was at his son’s side a good part of the day, at the chessboard, or the movies, or being wheeled into Mile High Stadium for a Bronco game.