Breanna looked at him. HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening; it was typically done from C-141’s. he’d actually only done it three or four times, but at this point he wasn’t admitting anything that might argue against him.
“Good fucking luck,” she said.
“I’m willing to take the risk, Captain.”
“It’s a hell of a lot simpler to leave one of your men on the ground. He can come later with Raven or find another ride.”
“We get there with five men, I may not be able to do my job,” Freah said. “That may mean Smith doesn’t come back. You want to take that responsibility?”
Breanna’s face turned red.
“Hey, listen,” said Freah, “your dad approved this.”
”Fuck my dad,” said Breanna, spinning away.
“Lady is pissed,” said Blow when Freah returned to the group.
“Let’s get going, no screwin’ around,” Danny told them, ignoring the titters. “We’re not flying fuckin’ TWA.”
Somalia
22 October, 1996, 0620 local
Mack bit his sleeve against the throb in his ribs as he slid to his knees. His heart pounded in his ears and his chest throbbed. He barely managed to stifle a cough.
They were in scrubland on the side of a hill, maybe a mile or two south of where he landed. Where exactly that placed them in the large world Knife had no idea. There were people nearby, though it wasn’t clear whether they were soldiers or even exactly where they were. Sergeant Melfi had just hit the dirt a few yards ahead and lay motionless, stydying something nearby.
Knife reached his right hand to his holster. Something moved behind him and he realized it must be Jackson, catching up.
At least, he hoped it was Jackson. He managed not to jump as the Marine touched his shoulder.
“What’s up?”
“He just stopped,” Smith said, nodding toward Melfi.
“He’s not too bad at point,” said the Marine. Then he added, “You want that morphine?”
Smith shook his head as vigorously as he could without jostling his ribs.
“You look pretty bad.”
“Drugs’ll put me out,” Knife told him. “You’ll have to carry me.”
Mack wasn’t even tempted. The pain told him he was alive.
They watch as Gunny crane this neck upward, then duck back down. Finally, the sergeant came back to them.
“Village maybe twenty yards away from where I was,” hissed Melfi when he returned. “Damn shacks are built out of old trucks and steel signs mostly. Damn. People live like that?”
Neither Smith nor Jackson spoke.
“Ground’s nice and flat,” added Gunny. “I think there’s a road beyond it.”
“Helicopter could use the village as a locator,” Smith told them. “If there is a road, it could land there.”
“Yeah,” Gunny, balanced on his haunches, considered it. “Let’s move that way, try and flank it,” he said finally. He threw his head around suddenly. Jackson quickly brought his gun up.
“Getting paranoid,” said Gunny when nothing appeared. “How much time until next transmission, Major?”
Smith looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”
“All right. Let’s get a little further back, make it harder for them to see of hear us, then we’ll move around that way. See where I’m pointing?”
Knife nodded.
“You know what? Let’s get behind those trees and you make your radio call now,” said Gunny. “Yeah. We can all take a break. For one thing, I got to pee. Getting too old for this shit. Go for it, Jackson. You got the point again.”
Melfi gently rested his hand on Smith’s shoulder, holding him back as Jackson moved out. The two Marines had emphasized battle separation several times, but while Knife wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the concept – fight aircraft practices it, after all – something innate wanted him to keep close to the two men and their M-16’s.
When Gunny finally released him, Mack heaved himself forward. He waddled low at first, moving sideways and then finding a stride that kept him balanced as well as close to the ground. The point man was moving a bit quicker, the distance between gradually spreading from five to ten and then fifteen yards. All things considered, Smith was pretty damn lucky – not only had he managed to avoid capture after bailing out, but he had a Marine escort to help lead him to safety.
Going to take a hell of a lot of ribbing about that.
Jackson had almost reached the copse ahead when Knife caught the sound of a prop-driven plane approaching from the south. He grabbed the Prick ninety, cursing himself as he realized he’d neglected to turn the radio’s dial back to off after his last transmission. There was no time to worry if that might have hurt the battery or
