He slung his rifle and grasped the stitched cloth handle on the back of Lee’s ballistic vest. Hardly noticing the 240 pounds of man and gear, Breezy pulled Lee through an open door.
“The radio!” Lee yelled. “Get the radio!”
Breezy looked outside and saw the precious lifeline in the street. He glanced at Lee’s bloody leg — what was left of it — and hesitated.
“Go, God damn it!” Lee shoved at him with one hand.
Breezy dashed into the street, scooped up the sat phone, and dashed back inside. He unslung his medic’s kit and pulled out a tourniquet. He worked fast, almost glad to have something to occupy his mind.
He knew that he was feeling the rising tide of panic. With an effort of will he choked it down. “It’s bad, Maje, but I can handle it.”
Lee allowed his head to rest on the floor, not wanting to look at his severed limb. He was surprised at how little pain he felt so far.
Breezy finished tending the traumatic amputation and pulled Lee farther inside the room. Some family’s breakfast had been violently interrupted. Looking around, he saw Lee’s carbine and fetched it for him.
“Jim Bowie,” Lee rasped.
“What?”
“That’s me. Jim Bowie, propped up in bed at the Alamo.” Lee emitted a giggle. “Mexicans over the wall. Gooks in the wire.”
Breezy feared that Lee was descending into shock. In the dim light, it was possible to see his eyes dilating.
“Major, can you stand? I can help you outside and maybe we can get help.”
Lee shook his head violently. “No… no. Wouldn’t make it.” He fumbled at his vest, seeking his notebook. As he patiently, deliberately wrote something, he said, “Gimme a shot.”
Breezy reached into his bag. “You want morphine?”
Lee clinched his teeth, biting down the rising pain. “All you got.”
Brezyinski recoiled at the implication. “I can’t do that. You know…”
Lee’s left hand was on Breezy’s throat. “Listen! I’m not gonna make it. An’ you can’t get out with me. But we can’t let them get the sat phone. Here.” He shoved the paper into Breezy’s hand. The ruled lines were crudely scrawled in black ink smudged with blood not quite dried.
Breezy focused hard to read the words.
“Now, gimme enough morphine!”
On by far the worst day of his life, before or after, Mark Brezyinski rolled up Stephen Lee’s sleeve, found the vein, and complied with his friend’s wish. Then the onetime happy-go-lucky paratrooper picked up the sat phone, walked through the door, and went over the wall.
42
Something was different about Imam Elham. He looked pleased for a change, standing before Hezbollah’s yellow and green flag.
Greeting Esmaili, Jannati, and the others, he almost smiled. “I have just received a message from Brother Azizi. The operation against Amasha appears successful. Our fighters should completely occupy the village before long. Many people are fleeing.”
Esmaili asked, “What of the attack on El-Arian?”
“That too is successful, even with lesser goals. Our forces have prevented any reinforcement of Amasha, and the defenders are reported staying in place. Some residents also are leaving there.”
Jannati, who listened closely and seldom spoke, ventured a question. “Imam, then when will we leave on our mission?”
“Tonight, when there is more confusion in the dark. With refugees spreading across the countryside, it will be easier for our two teams to conceal themselves among the rabble.”
“God is great!” Ka’bi, Jannati’s partner from Tehran, leapt to his feet. He led the others in the familiar chant. Esmaili was among the first to rise in response, mouthing the words with the others.
As the meeting broke up, Elham made that same infuriating come-to-me gesture to Esmaili. “I want to add a man to your team. He may be useful in holding any pursuers at bay.”
“Yes?”
“Your young marksman, Hazim.”
Esmaili blinked in surprise, measuring his words.
“Brother, his mission is to slow down those who might learn of your presence. After that, he can make his own way. If he survives.”
Esmaili thought:
“As you wish, Imam.”
Elham rewarded the chieftain with a rare pat on the shoulder. “We all serve God in our own way. You more than most.”
Breezy found a depression in the ground and sat down, rifle cradled across his knees. He tried to prompt more water from his Camelbak but it was empty. He leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply.
He saw Steve Lee lying on the floor of that house, calmly waiting for the morphine to do its merciful work.
Breezy’s eyes snapped open. His brain began to churn.
Mark Brezyinski was not given to rationalization. Before Amasha, his world had been ordered, if frequently violent. He had relatives whom he saw on occasion, but mostly he had SSI and his work. And Bosco. Now there was nobody to fill that void, the once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Breezy knew instinctively that there would never be another, and he allowed himself to cry a little more, as much for himself as for his dead friends.
On an impulse, Breezy pulled the crumpled, bloody paper from his pocket. He looked at Steve Lee’s dying declaration.
An electric tingle ran down Breezy’s spine.
In the pale gray atmosphere of midday, Breezy saw the dawn’s reality.
Breezy raised his hands to his head, grasping the paper that would prove he behaved decently. For the first
