not – he held it up and began broadcasting, starting with the call sign he had used while flying.
“Poison One to Project Command, to any allied aircraft. Do you read me?”
He snapped off the transmit button, looking upward. The plane he had heard was nearly overhead, relatively low, though he couldn’t see it yet. From the sound, it was driven by a prop. That could mean it was a Bronco-type observation craft – Madcap Magician had at least one of the ancient but dependable OV-10’s in its stable.
On the other hand, it could be nearly anything else.
“Poison One to all aircraft, do you read me?”
He flipped over to the second rescue band and retransmitted. There was no response.
The airplane above passed without him being able to see it. He guessed it was between one and two thousand feet. But it seemed to be flying in a straight line.
“What do you think?” Jackson asked, crawling next to him.
“If it’s one of ours, it should have heard us,” said Smith. He pressed the radio to his ear. It was also equipped with a small earphone, but he thought he got more volume without it. Smith tried broadcasting again, this time pointing the antenna in the direction of the plane.
“Nothing?” asked Gunny when he came back.
Knife shook his head.
“I didn’t see it,” said the sergeant.
“Me neither,” said Jackson. Knife shook his head too.
“Maybe they ‘re not on our side,” suggested Melfi.
“Somalians don’t have much of an air force,” said Smith. “And the Iranians would be running a MiG down here. But you’re right. There’s no way of knowing. Could be a civilian they pressed into duty. It didn’t seem like it was moving in a search pattern, but it’s hard to tell. I mean, I’ve never been on this end of one.” He meant it as a joke, but the others didn’t laugh. “How far are we from the coast?”
“Maybe another half mile this way,” said Gunny.
“I think we should go back to our plan then,” said Knife. “We go out to the ocean and broadcast from there. If that was the Somalians, then they’d have an easier time with us near the village.”
Gunny ran his finger back and forth across his chin, thinking. “See, if I’m a soldier, I come here, ask these villagers if they saw anything. They say no, I move on. I don’t waste my time searching around here, not unless these folks have seen or heard something. Besides, the ocean’s a good hike back that way, and that’s where they’ll be looking, I’d guess.”
“Hey, Gunny,” hissed Jackson.
Smith and Knife turned. Jackson crouched down, pointing his gun back in the direction of the village.
“Something big moved.
“Another pig, I hope,” said Smith.
“Wasn’t a pig before,” said Gunny, pushing away toward a low ridge to their right.
Knife returned his radio to his pocket, making sure it was off this time. He took out his gun.
Melfi and Jackson froze. So did he.
He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything, either. He blew a long, slow, deep breath from his mouth, waiting.
Gunny put his hand up, then began waving it, as if he wanted Knife to move backward. Mack too a long step backward, then another. The trees they’d been aiming for were less than ten yards away. Just beyond them were some low bushes and what seemed to be another clearing of tall grass.
Jackson was sprawled on the ground, crawling forward.
Knife took a half step toward the copse, watching as the Marine worked toward a trio of bushes no more than a foot high. He reached into his pants pocket for something.
Gunny stood straight up. Relieved, Knife let his pistol hand drop to his side.
As he did, Jackson whipped something from his hand, a baseball or a rock.
A grenade.
Smith threw himself to the ground as Gunny opened fire. bullets ripped overhead and there was an explosion, then another, then something acrid burned his nose.
Smoke. a smoke grenade, meant to confuse the enemy. Real grenades as well.
There were shouts and more gunfire. Knife ignored the pain in his ribs as he pushed himself back to his feet and began to run, heading for the trees, unsure exactly what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at the Beretta in his hand, then nearly tripped as he reached the first tree. He flew behind the narrow trunk, gun-first, reminding himself that the first figure he saw emerging from the thick fog would be one of his own men.
He waited, saw nothing. He heard nothing.
The best thing to do, he thought, was to transmit their location. He reached his left hand to take out the radio, felt the pull of his ribs. Somehow he managed to ignore it, taking out the PRC-90 and dialing it to beacon, not wanting to take his attention from the ground in front of him. Smoke curled around the trees and branches, as if a massive cloud bank had descended to earth.
Nothing.
