Morgan's Son (18 page)

"Here, kiss the girls. You're practically their uncle." She lifted two-year-old Sammy into his arms.

Craig smiled at the carrot-topped little girl, who was a spitting image of her mother.

"'Bye, Uncle Craig." She'd thrown her small arms around his neck and hugged him as hard as she could with her tiny strength.

"'Bye, sweetheart," he'd whispered, kissing her on the forehead and blinking back tears as he gently set her down next to her mother. He didn't dare look into Linda's tear-swollen blue eyes as he eased three-month-old Claire from
Cal
's arms. The tiny pink bow in Claire's hair made her look even more feminine.

"Say goodbye to your goddaughter,"
Cal
had said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Babies, Craig had discovered, always smelled good. Sometimes they smelled of baby powder; sometimes their skin possessed a sweet fragrance like a newly blossomed flower. He never got over that fact, and he loved to hold Claire close, to inhale her special scent. Claire was wide-awake. Though she had Linda's red hair, she had her father's big green eyes and gorgeous smile. Craig couldn't help smiling back as the baby reached up with one of her pudgy little arms, her fingers opening and closing against his shaven face.

"She's going to be a beauty," Craig confided in a strained voice.

"Just like her mama,"
Cal
murmured proudly. "A real heartbreaker."

Craig pressed a soft kiss to Claire's ruddy cheek. Her skin was so delicately soft, so unmarred by life. He carefully returned the blanketed form to her mother's waiting arms. Turning on his heel, he'd whispered goodbye to Linda, unable to stand the look of anguish in her face any longer. As he walked toward the ramp of the plane, he knew
Cal
was holding her, saying goodbye to her one last time. He felt the weight on his shoulders, knowing that
Cal
's life, and that of the other Recon teams, would be in his hands once they got over there. The fear of losing them, of destroying families' lives, ate at him….

The shuddering, shaking of the helicopter continued to vibrate through Craig. He hated the darkness. He hated even more the unknowns of this second mission. The two teams were to be dropped very close to Republican Guard lines—much closer than the first teams. They were nearing the drop zone. The muscles in his body were so tight with tension that Craig felt like one huge, painful cramp. He kept praying that nothing would happen.
Let them land safely. Let them—

"Look out!" Summers shrieked, gesturing to the right in warning.

Craig had only seconds to react. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of light, the illumination of one of the thousands of sand dunes surrounding them. A grenade launcher! They were flying at five hundred feet, dipping up and over one dune, down into the valley then up and over the next. Called "flying by the nap of the earth," it required hard, tense maneuvering. Crashing was always a possibility, and Craig counted on avoiding that by sheer concentration, flying as he'd never flown before. But the one thing he couldn't avoid, and couldn't allow for in advance was a direct enemy attack.

The grenade hit the chopper even as Craig jerked the controls, sending his aircraft up and away.
Too late.
An earsplitting explosion sounded above him, and he knew the grenade had struck the main rotor. He heard a sharp cry from Summers and the copilot slumped forward, held in place by the array of harnesses. Craig felt pain, shut his eyes and jerked his head to one side, away from the main explosion. Hot metal tore through the cabin, shredding everything in its path. The aircraft jerked upward, mortally wounded. And then it began to spiral, tail first, toward the desert below.

Frantically, despite the fires igniting all around him, igniting on his protective clothing on his arms, Craig tried to stop the flailing fall of his aircraft. He heard shrieks in his earphones. He heard
Cal
's voice booming above the rest, yelling at his men to prepare for a crash landing. The bird tumbled out of the black sky toward the black ground. Wildly, Craig tried to use the controls to stop the tail-first slide toward the sand. It was impossible! The grenade had not only shattered the main rotor above them, but shrapnel from the explosion had cut through the cables that would have allowed him some control over the wounded bird.

Craig was jerked violently from side to side. He felt the bird inverting from the tail, falling slowly over on it's port side. He heard the shrieks and screams of the men in the rear. They had no safety harnesses on them; they merely sat on nylon web seats, waiting, just waiting. He knew they were being thrown around in the cabin like marbles being thrown into a huge, empty room.

Below, he saw the fire highlighting the sand here and there. He saw hot pieces of metal plummeting down before them, lighting their way. Craig knew he was going to die. They were all going to die. In those seconds before the helicopter crashed into the three hundred foot sand dune, his entire life ran past his widened eyes, as if in slow motion.

Everything slowed as Craig tried to brace himself for impact, screaming at the others to do the same. The aircraft struck the sand on its left side. Craig was jerked violently downward, but the harness held him in place, probably saving his life. They had a lot of fuel on board for the long haul to the target drop zone, and it exploded on impact, hurling liquid through the rear cabin. In an instant, fire raged all around them…. The windows on the bird shattered inward, into the cockpit, sending glass projectiles hurling like bullets through his cabin. Droplets of fire rained down on him. Frantically, Craig tried to find the harness release. It was jammed! The heat in the cabin was intense. He heard the screams of men being burned alive all around him. The helicopter was still sliding downward, on the steep side of a large dune.

His Nomex gloves had been burned off his hands as he attempted to jerk the harness free. The heat and odor of fuel choked him. He gasped. The heat funneling up his nose into his mouth burned him. Both arms of his flight suit were on fire. Craig tried to think, but it was impossible. Out of instinct, out of hours of training, he reached for a boot knife that he always kept strapped to his right leg. Gripping the handle, he jerked it upward and laid the large blade against the harness that now held him prisoner. He had to get free to help
Cal
! The screams of the marines were pounding against his ears. The roar of the fuel fire was spreading. The heat was intense.

The aircraft jolted to a stop, and then slowly pitched over so that Craig was thrown upside down. It rested on its top, the metal wreaking and tearing as the weight of it sank downward. The fire engulfed everything. Sobbing, Craig sawed against the straps. One by one, they freed beneath the sharpened blade. He fell hard. Frantically, he worked to get Summers free. The heat was terrible, driving him out of the shattered cockpit window. Somehow, he got to his feet, ran around the copilot's side and began to saw at the harness that still held Summers. The copilot was unconscious. Maybe dead. He didn't know. He heard screams in the chopper. Heard men pounding against the metal skin and trying to escape.

Once he dragged Summers free of the cockpit, Craig drunkenly ran around the chopper to the door on the other side. The dune was steep, sucking at his boots, slowing down his forward progress. He heard men crying and screaming, banging on the door that had been jammed shut. The main fire was between the cockpit and cabin, stopping any escape attempts from it through the shattered windows of the cockpit. Sobbing for breath, Craig saw the burned, twisted metal that had once been the door. The grenade had landed between the door and the rotor above it.

Just as he launched himself forward to try and pull the door open, the second fuel tank exploded. There was a tremendous whoosh of heat, the sound of the explosion breaking his eardrums, and a feeling of being hurled bodily through the air. Craig remembered nothing more as he was slammed into the side of the dune, unconscious from impact.

He regained consciousness maybe fifteen minutes later. He felt very weak, disoriented, and his skin feeling like it was on fire. Barely raising his helmeted head, Craig saw his helicopter burning brightly down below him, like a torch in the darkness. A cry ripped from him as he sat up. When he tried to stand up, to run back down the slope to try and help his comrades, he fell flat on his face and lost consciousness again. Much later, he regained consciousness—only this time, it was at a field hospital behind the safety of American lines in
Saudi Arabia
.

Craig thrashed about on the couch, twitching feverishly. He felt a horrible fist jamming through him, and the need to cry was overwhelming. He'd never cried after what had happened. Once, after he'd gotten out of the hospital, he'd gone to see Linda and her children….

He retreated into a fetal position, the continuing
whap, whap, whap
of helicopter blades threatening to drive him insane. Why wouldn't the sound stop? Why?
Oh, God, just let me die. Release me. Stop the pain. Stop the remembering….

In the midst of his tortured anguish, Craig felt a cool hand on his sweaty shoulder. He wrestled out of his tormented state, the sound of the helicopter still in his ears. He could literally feel the vibration of it, it was so close. Had his nightmare of the crash taken a turn for the worse? He heard a woman's voice, low and husky, calling his name. Despite his disorientation, Craig realized the voice belonged to Sabra.

He concentrated on her touch, her cool hand sliding gently back and forth across his sweaty shoulder. A whimper escaped his tightly shut lips as he fought to disengage from the past and hone in on the present. He would have done anything to give up the nightmare, to bury his memories of the crash forever. Sabra's touch was healing, helping him stabilize.
Just let
Cal
get out of it. Please, let me go. Let me survive….

Sabra sat on the edge of the couch where Craig lay wrapped in a tight fetal position, his blanket twisted and knotted around his drawn-up legs. It was almost noon, and light was leaking in around the edges of the drapes. She'd been awakened by a helicopter flying very close to the hotel, just outside their window, along the beach. Then she'd heard a cry from the other room—Craig's voice. It had sent her flying out of bed.

Thinking he was under attack, she ran into his room, her pistol in hand, the safety off. Shocked, she saw Craig flailing around on the couch, as if fighting an invisible enemy. He kept clawing upward, reaching for something, then making slashing motions across himself. Realizing there was no intruder, Sabra put the safety back on her pistol, laid the weapon on the dresser and hurried to his side.

Though she vividly recalled his warning not to touch him, she couldn't help herself. He was in a tight knot, his arms wrapped around himself, his knees drawn upward toward his chest. He wore only light blue pajama bottoms. As full awareness surged through her, abruptly wiping away all sleepiness, she realized the cotton fabric was soaked, sticking to him like a second skin. His face looked tortured, his mouth contorted as if in a silent scream as she lowered herself beside him, her hip barely making contact with his knees. Even in the gloomy light, she could see his burn scars. They had reddened considerably during the nightmare. Lifting her hand, she reached out, her fingertips barely grazing his damp flesh. Craig was trembling, caught in the vise of something only he could see.

"Craig?" she whispered.

She saw the effect of her voice on him. His mouth eased, and he seemed to respond peripherally. Heartened, Sabra continued talking in a low voice. She wasn't sure what she said, so caught up was she in his pain. She just continued stroking his shoulder, offering him a point of reassurance within his nightmare experience.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Craig stopped trembling. His arms loosened slightly, and his knees were no longer frozen in such a locked position. Sabra pushed her hip against his thigh, forcing his long, powerful legs to stretch downward and release the rigid tension that had gripped them. She had never been able to stand seeing someone in pain. Maybe that was a weakness, but she didn't care. With her right hand, she increased her area of contact, softly caressing his bunched shoulders. There was such terrible tension in him. She placed her left hand over his badly scarred forearm, so in case he lashed out unexpectedly, she could parry the movement somewhat.

Strands of his hair stuck against his furrowed brow, and his eyes remained tightly shut, his spikey lashes flat against his drawn, pale skin. His breathing was ragged, gasping, and his body convulsed from time to time. Sabra leaned forward, her face close to his as she slid her arm around his shoulders to cradle him. To her utter surprise, the movement worked. As she curved her arm around him, Craig huddled against her, his damp face pressing against her nightgowned body.