Wynne's War (29 page)

He stood and followed Bixby over to the mouth of the cave, where Ox stood beside the captain. He glanced at Ziza. The Afghan was still standing at the far end of the ledge. He looked at Russell and smiled, ejected the magazine from his rifle, and let the mag fall to the ground. He'd reached to the mag pouch on his belt when a Talib clambered over the lip of the shelf with an AK to his shoulder. Ziza turned to see him just as he appeared—the two of them less than a meter away—and the commando dropped his rifle and reached behind his neck to draw the enormous knife from its sheath. He raised it and stepped forward to make a pass at his enemy, but the Talib emptied his clip into Ziza and sent him sprawling back. Ox and the captain had their backs to the men, but Bixby lifted his weapon and fired, missing each shot. The Talib pointed his rifle, but he was either out of ammunition or his gun malfunctioned, and Russell drove his gun forward and put two rounds into the man's midsection.

The Talib went down hard, rifle in his lap and his hands pressed against the bright blood spreading across the front of his shirt. The captain turned and began firing, and the Talib jerked backward and then lay still.

The four of them moved up and knelt around Ziza. He'd fallen onto a clump of broken sandstone, and there were bullet wounds across his groin, bullet holes in his throat and face. His mouth was open, the front teeth shattered, and his brown eyes stared up at nothing. Wynne put his hand to the commando's chest and Ox began to curse. The captain tore the Velcro patch from Ziza's shoulder—
A POS
—and held it a moment. Then he rose, slid it in a cargo pocket, and started back toward the mouth of the cave. As he went he keyed the radio, calling once again for Rosa.

“What are you thinking?” Bixby asked.

“I don't know,” the captain said.

“You think their radios are down?”

“I said I don't know,” Wynne told him.

He tried the radio again: “Underchild, this is Underchild Actual, how copy?”

He stood waiting for a response, with the breeze stirring his hair, blue eyes very bright. He turned and looked back toward the valley where they'd left the others. Then he turned and looked at Bixby and Russell.

“Take Russ and go see what the deal is,” he said to Bixby. Stay in radio contact. You get eyes on, grab Wheels and beat feet back up here.”

“You're going back?” Bixby said.

“Me and Ox,” the captain told him. “Get moving. I want to be back on the trail in an hour.”

“How about we get back on the trail now?” said Russell.

The captain's brows tightened and his eyes seemed to narrow.

“Get moving,” he said.

 

Russell and Bixby came down the slope, skidding through the talus, raising a gray dust. They made the flat floor of the plain and went toward the grove of evergreen saplings at a sprint. It was about a hundred yards out, and then it was seventy-five yards, fifty, twenty-five, and then they were jogging among the leaves and limbs. They came crashing through the underbrush and branches, and when they entered the clearing where the horses had been tied, the first thing Russell saw was Hallum on his back with his body armor stacked beside him; the second thing was Wheels sitting beside him with the radio propped on his knee. He had his back to a tree and a tourniquet wrapping his left thigh, and Russell walked up and saw that Hallum was dead. Wheels looked up at Russell. He'd been shot through his right thigh. His eyes quivered.

“We've been sort of busy,” he said.

Bixby began examining the wound, cutting off Wheels's pants leg with a pair of medical shears, pressing the skin around the wound with his fingers. Russell didn't think it looked that bad, but the sergeant's face was grave.

“Where's Rosa?” Russell asked.

“Still in his perch,” said Wheels. “You had to've heard his rifle.”

“We heard it,” Bixby said.

Wheels shook his head. “He's been racking them up. He'll be pissed no one's here to confirm.”

“Morgan and Perkins are gone,” said Bixby.

“Zero too,” Russell added.

“Talibs?” Wheels asked.

Russell nodded.

“They got Ziza?” said Wheels.

“Yeah.”

“Perkins too?”

“Perkins too,” said Russell.

“Where's the captain?”

Russell was about to tell him, when the radio crackled to life.

“Underchild Five, how copy?”

Wheels glanced down at the radio, then picked it up and keyed the talk.

“I read you,” he said, “go ahead.”

“What's your situation? Over.”

“We lost Hallum,” said Wheels. “I took one in the leg. We don't have eyes on Rosa. His radio isn't working.”

“Have you seen Corporal Russell?”

“He's sitting right here beside me,” Wheels told him.

“Put him on.”

“Wilco,” said Wheels and passed the radio.

“How do things look out there?” the captain asked.

“Terrible,” Russell told him.

“Are you in contact?”

Russell told him not at present.

“We need some help in here,” said Wynne, and right as he said it, they heard Rosa's rifle from the hill up above them.

“Sergeant Rosa's engaging targets.”

“That's good,” said Wynne. “We're going to need some help.”

Russell was silent a moment. He told the captain they needed help themselves.

Wynne didn't respond to this. He said, “Put Mother on.”

Russell passed the radio to Sergeant Bixby.

“Get back up here,” Wynne said. “You and the corporal.”

“Captain, I've got a patient,” Bixby told him. “It's a through-and-through, but the round just missed his femoral. He could turn into a category highest.”

“Not up for discussion,” the captain said.

Bixby sat there several moments. Russell could see the struggle on his face. He watched it move from his mouth to his eyes and then back to his mouth again.

“Now?” he asked.

“Right now,” the captain said.

Bixby stood and brushed at his pants. Another gunshot came from the hill—still Rosa's—and then another that wasn't. They waited a few seconds and heard Rosa answer the shot. Then everything was quiet.

“Roger that,” said Bixby, and then handed the radio back to Wheels.

Russell had reloaded and charged his friend's carbine, then stacked spare magazines beside him on the ground. He squatted there, studying Wheels's face. He was frightened for him and frightened for himself if something should happen to the man. A great cavity of need seemed to yawn inside him, and he knew that he'd only been able to keep it together because Wheels had somehow propped him up. It wasn't the kind of thing you ever said, and he didn't say it now.

What he said was, “You going to be all right? Down here, I mean?”

“Be better down here than you'll be up there,” said Wheels.

Russell said he had a point. He gestured toward the man's rifle.

“That enough ammo? I can get a few more mags from your saddle.”

Wheels glanced at the magazines laid out along his leg. His lips mumbled, counting.

“No,” he said.

“You need water?”

“Not thirsty.”

“Keep sipping from your tube anyway,” Bixby said. The sergeant pointed at the tourniquet around his thigh. “Especially with that.”

 

The cave was cold and quiet, and Bixby and Russell went along shoulder to shoulder, their carbine lights flashing over the dead rock walls.

When they passed down the narrow tunnel and emerged into the torch-lit chamber, they saw that Ox and the captain had removed the lids from dozens of crates, overturned them and spilled their contents on the talc-covered floor. Countless rounds of ammunition, hundreds of Soviet-era grenades. American MREs and new American uniforms and a number of brick-sized packets of plastic explosive, wrapped in wax paper like sticks of butter. There was a small pile of detonators and blasting caps. Another pile of toe-popper mines. Russell and Sergeant Bixby stepped farther into the room, lowering their rifles, glancing around. Bixby called for the captain, and then Russell looked over and saw him. He and Ox were on the far side of the chamber, bent over what looked like a metal footlocker—about two feet long, a foot wide, another foot in depth. He had no idea what was in the chest, but as soon as he saw it, something seemed to yaw inside him and his hands started to shake. The captain turned to look at them, then motioned them over.

Russell went toward the captain. He felt like he was floating. His head seemed to drift through the clove-scented air. He stepped up to the locker, bent down, raised the lid, and let it fall back on its rusted hinge. Then he squatted there in the torchlight, staring down.

It was gold. Gold coins and gold bracelets and medallions of gold the size of your fist, faces in profile on the medallions, none that he recognized. Necklaces. Earrings and pendants. A perfect golden cup. There were steel handles on either end of the chest, and Russell closed his hand around one and pulled. Nothing. Like trying to lift the floor.

He put a hand to his sternum, massaged it, and then he gripped his temples with his middle finger and thumb. He felt his world dissolving, and he thought he was going to be sick. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Easy,” Bixby said.

Wynne was staring at him, those blue eyes searching his face. Scanning. Assessing.

“We have to get this out,” he said. “Use some of these ammo crates, divide it so it's lighter, try and carry it down two at a time. You and Ox on one. Me and Bixby on the other. We're looking at a few thousand pounds, probably. It's going to take us several trips.”

Russell started to speak, but his mouth was so dry nothing came at first.

“You knew,” he tried to say.

Wynne continued staring.

“You knew the whole time.”

Wynne didn't respond. He heard Ox clear his throat.

Bixby said, “We're burning daylight.”

“Were there ever any prisoners?” Russell asked.

“We didn't know what there was,” said Wynne.

“Perkins and Sergeant Morgan,” said Russell.

“All right,” said Ox.

“Ziza,” said Russell. “Sergeant Hallum.”

“That's enough,” Ox said.

Russell had started to back away. He went slowly, palms out in front of him. Like the victim of a robbery.

Wynne watched. He said there'd be time for questions later. He said to give them a hand.

Russell kept stepping backward.

He said, “Wheels is out there with a bullet through his leg.”

“I understand that,” Wynne said.

“No, sir,” said Russell. “I don't believe that you do.”

“The captain gave you an order,” Ox told him.

“We're not going to get out of here with that,” Russell said, pointing at the chest.

“Calm down,” Wynne told him.

“If we move Wheels now, he might could have a chance.”

“Goddamnit,” said Ox. “You will get your ass over here and help move this crate. Do you have any idea what this will buy these fuckers?”

Russell was still moving toward the tunnel, inch by excruciating inch.

Wynne said, “Our enemy will use this to murder thousands. Think about that for a second: men and women and children. It's not about any one of us. What do you think your grandfather would say if—”

Russell raised the rifle and trained the red dot on the captain's face. His ears were humming and blood seemed to rush to the base of his brain. He could feel himself separating. He was twenty feet away from the captain, and compensating for the height of his optic over the barrel, the rounds would strike Wynne in the throat. When he thumbed off the safety, he could hear the smooth click of the selector snapping into place. He could hear the sound of the torches burning along the walls. He wouldn't have heard this unless it was very, very quiet.

The captain stared at him for several moments.

He said, “You plan to shoot me?”

Russell kept backing toward the tunnel, boot soles scraping across the floor.

“Corporal,” said Ox, “have you lost your fucking mind?”

“It ain't me that's the crazy one.”

“You better lower that weapon,” Ox said, “and you better do it now.”

The captain said, “I'm willing to take your service into consideration. I'm willing to make some allowances. First, put down the rifle.”

“You say another word,” Russell told him, “so help me God.”

The captain said, “You're heading down a treacherous road.”

“
Put.
Your weapon.
On.
The deck,
” Ox said.

Russell felt his back collide with the wall. The opening to the tunnel was just to his right, but he wasn't going to take his eyes off the captain to look. He stepped sideways, then sideways again, squatted down and started crawling backward. He was a few feet inside the tunnel, his left palm touching the ground, holding the rifle to his shoulder by the grip, the red dot swaying over the captain's chest.

Wynne said, “You realize what you're doing?”

“I should've realized a lot sooner,” Russell said.

“This is willful disobedience of a superior officer,” said Wynne. “Add to that, desertion.”

“You can go to hell, sir.”

“They can execute you for this, son. You understand that, right?”

Russell shook his head. He wasn't disagreeing with the captain. He was trying to shake the man's voice out of his brain.

Wynne stared at him another moment. His face was very solemn, almost sad. Then his expression seemed to soften. He nodded at Russell and gave the slightest smile.

“You can go,” he told him.

Then Russell was retreating, the arc of torchlight receding in front of him, scooting into the blackness at his back. He'd already decided to empty his magazine into anything that appeared in the tunnel. His arm ached from holding up his rifle, and after several meters he clutched the weapon against his body and focused on getting away. He was halfway through the passage, then a little farther, and then the walls fell away and he emerged into the chamber, crouched for a moment, and stood. He stepped to one side and turned on his carbine light. He waited for a grenade to come rolling down the tunnel. He waited for the flashbang that would detonate and knock him senseless.