green oxygen bottles with masks to suck out of. These are the smoke-inhalation cases, Garcia surmised.
The corpsman rolled him under a large X-ray machine and positioned a giant cone above his chest.
Just like fucking Vietnam, Garcia told himself, only the trip to the hospital was a whole lot quicker. No ride in a Huey strapped to a stretcher, absolutely helpless if the damned thing got shot down or crashed. And the wound ain’t so bad, either, all things considered. That machine gun round in the gut had been a real dilly. At least he was conscious, which was something. In Vietnam he had hemorrhaged until he passed out and woke up with needles in his arm and a tube down his nose all the way to his stomach and a tube up his dick and ninety-five brand-new stitches. Those doctors had almost cut him in half. Eleven months in the fucking hospital. Never again. He had told himself that about a million times through the years. Never again. The next time he was just going to die. Nothing could be worth going through that again.
Jesus, Vehmeier got blasted by that fucking grenade. That silly shit. Why in hell did he fall on that bastard? That Vehmeier … it was enough to make a grown man cry, that a guy like Vehmeier …
One of the corpsmen rolled him from the X-ray room and parked the bed along a passageway bulkhead, then hurried away. “Hey, man,” he called, wanting to be beside Vehmeier, but they paid no attention. They were busy, he told himself, and Vehmeier wouldn’t know he was there anyway. They probably got six IV needles stuck in him and have given him enough dope to supply Los Angeles for a week. Too bad about his hands, but with artificial hands he can do everything except pick his nose.
He wondered if he was bleeding internally. He had seen enough bullet wounds to know that there was no way to tell just from looking. You observed the patient for signs that he was losing blood, and if it wasn’t visibly coming out of holes, it must be internal bleeding. And shock looked like hemorrhaging. He wondered if he was in shock. He felt cold, but they had put a blanket over him. Mild shock maybe. He took several deep breaths, trying to see if his lungs were working properly. His side felt as if he had a knife in it. Maybe he shouldn’t do that. Maybe a busted rib would penetrate his lung.
Wonder if that foray on the bridge did any good. He had knocked that one gunman down for sure and maybe the other guy. Those sailors had been shot, but there was no other way. They would have approved, he told himself. They would have wanted him to try.
One of the corpsmen returned, the one with the glasses. “The doctor says you have two cracked ribs, but there are no bullet fragments in your chest. Just an ugly surface wound. You were very lucky.”
Yeah. Very lucky. That slug could have went into my gut and there is no way my gut could take another, not with all that scar tissue down there. Very lucky. Yeah. “How about wheeling me in with Sergeant Vehmeier.”
“Who?”
“That marine that was brought down here a while ago with his hands blown off. He fell on a grenade.”
“Oh. He’s dead. Sorry.” The sailor walked away. It was a busy night.
“Come back here, you fucking swabbie!” Garcia’s voice was coldly furious. The sailor paused and turned, uncertainty on his face. “You said Sergeant Vehmeier is dead?”
“Yeah, Sarge. He was dead when they brought him in here.”
“I’m ‘Gunnery Sergeant’ to you, pill-pusher. Now get some fucking tape and put a permanent bandage on this wound.” Garcia slid his legs off the edge of the bed and hoisted his torso erect, feeling slightly dizzy and nauseous.
“You can’t—”
“Do I have to get the fucking tape and do it myself?”
The sailor scurried away.
Where did they put that fucking rifle?
As the helicopters had settled onto the angle of the flight deck Colonel Qazi marched Admiral Parker down the ladders toward the flight deck with his pistol in his back. He saw no one. The ladderwell was empty. Except at the last flight of stairs before he reached the flight deck level — Qazi’s dead Palestinian lay where he had fallen, still crumpled against the door. The door gaped several inches. He made the admiral step over the corpse and push the door open.
He heard a sound to his left and stepped behind the admiral. The barrel of a rifle pointed at him below one frightened eye. “If you pull that trigger, you’ll kill the admiral. If you don’t, I will. After I kill you.”
Several seconds passed, then the eye and barrel disappeared. Qazi listened as the man retreated.
The wounded man had died. The muscles in his face were slack and his eyes stared fixedly at nothing. The other body lay undisturbed. But their weapons were missing. And their gym bags. The door to Flight Deck Control was open a crack. One of his men there opened it wider and nodded.
On the flight deck he met Noora and Ali. They were surrounded by armed men and had Jarvis between them. More men lay in a circle around the helicopters, their weapons at the ready. The engines of the helicopters were still and the rotors stationary.
Qazi set off diagonally up the flight deck, heading for the catwalk forward of Elevator One. Behind him Ali and Noora shepherded Jarvis along. Immediately behind Jarvis was a man carrying one of the trigger devices. It weighed about forty pounds and was slung across his back on straps. Qazi kept the admiral’s arm firmly in his grasp. Youssef, the Palestinian leader, carried two backpacks over his shoulders. Two gunmen preceded the party and two followed. Two more were out on each side. “Faster,” Qazi told the men in front, and they picked up the pace.
24
The power was off in the forward mess deck. Emergency battle lanterns provided the only illumination. The unarmed sailors who packed the place gaped when they realized that the officer in whites with tape over his mouth and wrists handcuffed together was Admiral Parker. Ali and his troops pointed their weapons and gestured. The sailors hastily retreated through the watertight hatches into the passageways beyond with many backward glances at Admiral Parker, who watched them go impassively. Qazi’s men dogged the hatches shut again behind the last Americans.
The entrance to the forward magazine was a hatch leading downward. It was marked with a warning in red: “Unauthorized Personnel, Keep Out. This Means YOU.” Everyone donned gas masks: Noora helped Jarvis with his, and Qazi placed one on Admiral Parker and ensured it was properly positioned on his face and functioning correctly. Then Ali and his men opened the dogs on the magazine hatch and lifted it to the open position.
The first man through the magazine hatch found the compartment below empty. It was merely a security access area. A large vault door stood at the end of the compartment with a television camera immediately above it. The gunman put a pistol bullet through the camera and the red light just below the lens went out. He could hear the muffled sound of an alarm. He quickly set a shaped charge on the door, then stood to one side and detonated it. Within seconds his companion, Youssef, slipped a hose attached to a metal canister through the small hole in the door punched by the explosive and opened the valve on the canister. As the gas hissed through the hole the first man methodically set plastique charges on the vault door. When he had the fuses set, he scrambled away up the ladder. Youssef secured the valve on the canister, pulled the hose from the hole, and scurried after his companion.
The explosion jolted the mess deck. Down the ladder the two men went again.
The access compartment was in total darkness. Shattered glass from the fluorescent tubes in the overhead and the emergency battle lanterns lay on the deck. The security door was off its hinges and badly warped. Smoke eddied uncertainly. The two men pulled the door free and groped their way into the next compartment.
One of the three marines in the compartment was still conscious, so the intruders shot him. They ignored the others. The gas would keep its victims out cold for several hours. Qazi had insisted on the use of nonlethal gas; not because of any concern for the victims, but just in case one of his key people had a defective mask.
Another hinged watertight door stood against the forward bulkhead of this compartment. It had no locks, but opening the door would be fatal if there were armed marines on the other side. The two gunmen set another shaped charge and backed away. It exploded with a metallic thud.
Youssef approached the hole with his canister. He never got there. A marine on the other side of the door put
