“Umm,” was all Puller could think to say. The news filled him with terrible weariness. He hated that part of it the worst, where the bigshots came by after the battle and asked the kids who’d survived where they were from and told them their folks would be proud of them. Well, he supposed it would mean something to the kids.
“Do you have final casualty figures, Captain?”
“It’s pretty bad, sir. Bravo lost seventy-six killed, maybe another hundred to hundred twenty hit. Delta lost twelve men in the initial assault; then, of the one hundred five we got into the tunnel, we lost sixty-five dead, the rest hit. Only seven guys in Delta came out without a scratch. Of the first squadron, twenty-two guys, you got one hundred percent fatals. The Rangers lost fifty-one KIA in the assault, maybe another seventy-five wounded. Third Infantry came out with only some mussed hair. Eleven KIA, thirty-one wounded. We lost six helicopter aircrew from the two crashed birds. Then there was that FBI agent Uckley. Also
“All right, Captain. What about that poor welder? The one who burned Pashin?”
“They think he’s going to make it, sir. He’s stable. Lost a lot of blood, but he’s looking good.”
“I’m glad. What about the Soviets?”
“Well, we figure their strength to have been about seventy. We’ve got sixty-two body bags and eight badly wounded.”
Then, absurdly chipper in the morning light, McKenzie suddenly smiled. His face was giddy with innocent enthusiasm.
“Sir, you did it. I mean, you really outfought that guy. You had him outsmarted at every step of the way. I have to tell you, in Delta we were pretty pissed off at you yesterday. But you knew what you were doing. You won. Goddamn, you kicked Aggressor-One’s ass.”
There was such indecent worship in the young man’s voice, it filled Puller with nausea. The stupid little prick. Puller snorted.
“Peter Thiokol did it, McKenzie. I just pointed the soldiers up the hill.”
But he was an argumentative little son of a bitch.
“No, sir. Respectfully, sir, you beat him. And Delta beat him, sir. That’s the lesson. You got a problem, you call the professionals. Your professional, hell get it done, sir, your elite soldier.”
No, that was not the lesson. Puller saw that now. In the end it wasn’t Delta on the mountain. In the end it wasn’t the professionals. It was the regular people. A black convict. A Vietnamese refugee. A young federal officer. A neurotic defense consultant. A welder. An Air National Guard pilot. A gym teacher, an accountant, a housewife.
He looked at the huge mountain that sat atop the surface of the earth and realized then what you had to do to get to the top of it and stop the madness.
It wasn’t the professionals. It was the regular people, the Rest of Us, back in the world. It was our mountain, and we had to get up there. If we didn’t, who would?
Suddenly, the pulsing sound of helicopter engines rose above him. Three huge Sea Stallions in green and white had appeared over it and were beginning the descent. Even from the distance Puller could make out the seal of the President of the United States.
“Sir, we ought to be down there. The Joint Chiefs will be along too. And I bet the press will be here soon. They’re going to be all over this mountain by noon. It’s going to turn into a carnival.”
Puller rose, threw away his cigarette, and said yes, yes, the captain was right, they had better go to meet the President.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN HUNTER was born in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1946. He graduated from Northwestern University in 1968 and spent two years in the United States Army. He joined the staff of the Baltimore
