The Valley (35 page)

“Focus on now,” Black told the ceiling.

“Oh, God.”

He looked very pale.

“Get on your nets!”

Hubbard lurched and bent sideways, falling to his knees and vomiting explosively into the wastebasket that sat next to his desk.

“Stay with me,” Black muttered, his own voice sloshing around in his head.

Hubbard hung his head over the wastebasket, panting, eyes closed, hands clutching its sides.

“Oh, Jesus,” he murmured.

The volume of unanswered radio traffic pressed and seethed at them like a barely contained mob.

“C'mon, Hubbard,” Black urged woozily. “C'mon, stay on your radios and forget everything else.”

Nothing.

“You're doing good, Hubbard, but you gotta stay on it. You gotta keep on the nets and get a picture of what's happening all over so you can guide the defense.”

He could hear his own voice growing taut and desperate.

“C'mon, man, they need you to do it.”

Hubbard just shook his head.

“We're dead.”

“We're not dead. We just gotta hold this place until the convoy gets here.”

Hubbard screamed at him.

“How the fuck are we supposed to h
—
”

WHUMP.

Another concussion, as powerful as the one before, shook the walls visibly and crushed the air in the room. Hubbard ducked, shielding himself with his arms.

Black clutched his head and yowled in pain, curling to the side. His skull felt like it was going to collapse in on itself.

“Goddamn it!” Hubbard's distant voice shouted from behind the desk.

Subdividing phosphorescent blotches filled Black's vision.

Ohh, hurts.

He nearly rolled off the cot.

“Find out,” he heard himself yelling from somewhere, “where that ca—”

“CHARLIE IN THE WIRE!”

The single transmitting voice cut through the rest of the clamor. Black opened his eyes in time to see the splotchy image of Hubbard's head pop above the desk, uncomprehending.

The rest of the radio traffic fell away.

“I mean, enemy in the wire!” came the same voice. “ENEMY IN THE WIRE!”

Hubbard leaped for his radios as the report was passed throughout the COP, cascading across the nets.

Charlie in the wire,
Black repeated dumbly as Hubbard hollered into his handsets. Some kid had Vietnam on the brain.

They were breached.

—

Qadir burst ahead, sandals pounding dirt downhill. He felt the group surging forward on either side of him. Felt his long legs fly, his feet glide across the slope like he was made of air.

No, water. A droplet in the wave of red justice that would break upon the walls and rage through the openings, course through every rotten vessel and dark space inside. Wash it clean.

He stomped ahead of the older men and the younger boys, crisp air filling his lungs, the far hillsides of his stolen home rising above the looming compound. He would be first.

Welling tears bent his vision and he understood. Understood that if only for this moment alone it was worthwhile to have drawn his first breath, to have walked on this Earth.

Thank you.

He bounded over the scattered rubble and leaped through the ragged gap in the wall, his heaving breath in his ears, eyes adjusting instantly to the dim light. The racket of weapons was deafening in here. He turned to face it, raising his rifle without aiming, and shot the first wide-eyed American he saw in the face. Qadir saw nothing after.

Y
ou good, sir?”

The voice cut through the noise. He didn't recognize it. No, he did. Whose?

His.

“You good, sir?”

No, Hubbard's. Shouting at him through the racket.

Black's palms pressed on something cold and hard. His knees throbbed.

Concrete. He was on his hands and knees on the floor. Had he fallen out of the cot?

He thought maybe he'd lunged for the radio, when he'd heard something.

The breach.

“No, I know about that one!” Hubbard was calling into his radio. “Where's the other?”

“South wall!” someone came back. “There's at least six guys inside the backyard near Bay One!”

“Roger, roger!” Hubbard called, switching to his walkie-talkie. “Schupe, can you get anybody close to there?”

How much time had passed? Had he lost consciousness?

“Negative!” came the return call, punctuated with nearby gunfire. “No way right now! Check with Pilar!”

There was no more talking over the radio nets now. Only yelling.

“What about the guys in the mortar pit?” someone else called in.

“Do not go there!” Hubbard shouted back, then keyed a different radio handset. “Stand by!”

He returned to the first radio.

“Do not attempt that!” Hubbard repeated into the walkie. “Willis, take whoever you got and get to Bay Two. There's five or ten guys on foot right out the back door.”

“Got it.”

“Wright, come in!”

Another channel cut in.

“X-Ray, aid station!”

Black pushed himself backward into a sitting position, his back resting against the cot rail.

“Aid station, stand by! Stand by!”

A cloudy vision of Hubbard danced among the radios trying to wrangle a squad together to push the intruders back at the most recent breach point.

How many were there?

“X-ray!” someone squawked in. “Tower Three!”

“X-ray!” Hubbard shot back.

“We're black on ammo and there's guys inside the wall like thirty meters from us!”

Hubbard keyed the mic immediately.

“What if I can get you . . .”

He trailed off as he realized the guard tower had stepped on his transmission.

“We're outta here, man,” they called in. “We're pulling back into the building.”

Black and Hubbard exchanged looks. Hubbard punched the desktop.

“Shit!”

They were losing the initiative.

We have to regain it.

Hubbard squeezed the handset angrily, shaking his head in helpless exasperation.

“Roger!”

Or these guys are all going to die.

“We're pulling back through the backyard near the generators,” the tower called back in. “Just don't let anyone fucking shoot us on the way!”

Hubbard threw up his arms.

“Do my best!” he shouted unconvincingly into the radio.

There were at least three different breach points, as far as Black could tell, with ground forces now making a concerted effort to push through the gaps. In at least two places they'd succeeded, and were now clashing with the barely organized resistance in the compound's makeshift passages and haphazard spaces.

The aid station cut back in.

“We still need some hands, man!” they pressed. “We need 'em now!”

“I
know
!
” Hubbard shot back, frazzled. “I'm tryi—”

WHUMP.

The room shook violently, sending Hubbard under the desk again.

Black's head filled with high-pitched screeching. He doubled forward, clutching his temples, and tipped over to the hard floor.

“Damn it!” Hubbard shouted, grabbing his walkie-talkie. “Where was that? Where was that?”

“East wall!” someone shot back. “Near the connexes! Bay Two!”

The CP door burst open, smacking against the cinderblock wall. Hubbard jumped. Black flinched against the sharp noise.

A boot stomped through, followed by the rest of Shannon, ducking his armor-laden frame and pushing through the opening.

“Goddamn it, guy!” he boomed, “You gotta—”

He stopped short, seeing that it was only Hubbard running the CP.

“What the fuck?”

He saw Black on the floor holding his forehead.

“Jesus,” he declared.

He stomped across to Hubbard's desk, peering down at Black as he went.

“Your fucking ears, Lieutenant.”

Black touched his hands to the sides of his head.

“Show me where,” Shannon told Hubbard.

Black held his fingers in front of his face and saw blood on all the tips.

Shannon listened as Hubbard jabbed fingers at a map of the compound, showing him where the most serious incursions had taken place.

“All right,” Shannon said, pointing at the map. “I need a machine gun for cover
here
by the time we get to the yard. Can you get one there?”

“Yeah.”

Shannon stubbed a huge finger into Hubbard's chest.

“
That's
your priority right now, Hubbard. You got it?”

He swept aside the riot of noise from Hubbard's radio stacks.

“None of this other bullshit, you understand?”

“Yeah. How many guys you got?”

Shannon glanced down at Black, their eyes meeting for a moment.

“Five.”

“Shit.”

“Just get it there.”

He turned and headed for the door.

“Couldn't catch Caine in time,” he told Black as he passed.

“Where are you going?”

“To take this bitch back,” Shannon answered and was gone.

“Come on,” Black heard him say to unseen soldiers in the hallway.

Hubbard leaped on his radios, trying desperately to cut into the furious crosstraffic now crowding all the nets.

“Brand!” he cried. “Pilar, you there?”

Everyone shouted at everyone else, trying to get a picture of what was happening where.

“Pilar!”

“Here.”

“You gotta take the two-forty from the courtyard and move it to behind the Taj Mahal right now!”

“What? Negative! We can't move from here!”

“You gotta! Shannon needs it right now!”

Every person Hubbard spoke to was locked in his own pitched fight just to avoid losing further ground to the intruding forces.

“—moving west in the yard.”

“No, I
said
six
guys!”

“—nyone still inside that bay?”

“Gonna hit the generator if they—”

“X-RAY.”

Shannon's voice cut through the din. Hubbard snatched up the radio.

“X-ray!”

“How 'bout it, Hubbard, you wanna get us the
god
damn machine gun or what?”

“I'm trying!” Hubbard hollered at him. “No one can get there!”

He stamped his boots on the ground in frustration.

“You're
trying?
” Shannon came back, incredulous. “Motherfucker, you gotta GET someone to—”

The aid station cut in.

“Hubbard, we can't wait on those guys!”

“I DON'T GOT ANY GUYS!”

He swung around to the walkie-talkie.

“Oswalt, get your ass back here now!”

“Roger,” came Oswalt's drawling reply.

“No, wait!” Black called. “He needs to—”

The room bucked as something exploded outside, very close to the CP. Black howled and clung to the sideways floor.

His head was filled with concrete. No, his cheek was pressed against the cold concrete of the floor. He heard no sound.

Please stop. No more.

He opened his eyes and then realized they were already open.

The room was in darkness.

“Shit!” Hubbard was shouting. “The generator!”

The generator. Any interior part of the COP would now be in darkness.

Black heard the desk door slide open, something metallic thunking against its side. Radios squawked, voices thick with panic. No one indoors could see anything.

Something plunked down hard on the desktop. Pale white light made shadows around Black. Electric lantern.

The radio nets were now chaos as everyone tried to account for everyone else and for the location of the enemy. Black tried to pull himself to his hands and knees.

Please let me stop.

“Damn it!” Hubbard cried, slapping a battery pack into the back of a radio that didn't have one. “Damn it! Damn it!”

I mean let it stop.

“X-ray, aid station! We got no juice here, man! We're dark!”

Shannon cut in again.

“Hubbard,” he growled, his voice colored with rage. “You
listen
to me. I don't care about the fucking gener—”

The door smacked open again. Who was that talking?

YOU GOOD, SIR?

Not him. Not possible.

“You good, sir?”

Oswalt's voice, above him.

“Oswalt!” he heard Hubbard cry. “Come here, man. I need you!”

“What's wrong with the lieut—”

“Don't worry about that! I need you to get the two-forty from the courtyard post and take it to Shannon right now!”

“Okay.”

“You gotta haul ass, man, you understand? They need you bad.”

Forehead to the floor, Black begged his world to stop spinning.

HAUL ASS.

“Here, look at the map,” Hubbard was saying to Oswalt. “Let me show you where.”

“Hubbard!” Shannon's voice roared through the radio. “Come in, goddamn it!”

“Okay, do you understand, Oswalt?” Hubbard was asking.

“Got it.”

“Two-six Romeo.”

Two-six Romeo? Who was that talking on the radio?

“Go there now, man. Don't stop.”

“Don't stop.”

It wasn't Two-Six Romeo.

“Tiger Zero-Zero.”

“Shannon!” Hubbard was shouting at the walkie. “Oswalt's coming now!”

“Quiet!” Black shouted into the concrete. “Stop!”

“Vega Command, this is Tiger Zero-Zero inbound, over.”

Hubbard and Oswalt fell silent at the new voice on the radio.

“Say again, Vega Command, this is Tiger Zero-Zero inbound, how copy?”

“Holy shit!”

Hubbard leaped and snatched up the handset.

“This is Vega!” he cried. “Vega X-Ray!”

“Roger, Vega X-Ray,” came the cool, detached voice of the helicopter pilot. “We're two minutes out, approaching from your south.”

Hubbard emitted a sound somewhere between a single laugh and a gasping sob.

“Somebody told 'em, sir!” he shouted at Black's prostrate form.

“What's your status, Vega X-Ray?” the pilot called down from somewhere among the angels.

Hubbard keyed back, cupping the handset to his mouth like a flowing spigot of life.

“Uh, we got dismounts on foot inside the compound, we got . . . many casualties, and we got no generator power.”

“Good copy, X-Ray,” came the pilot's soothing tones, as though hearing this kind of information pleased him. “I'm seeing your smoke up ahead. We're gonna lay down some fire for you, but visibility's gonna be pretty bad.”

“Okay,” Hubbard responded. “Yeah.”

He shook his head to clear it.

“Yeah, we got no front line trace.”

“Roger that, X-Ray,” the pilot answered, unflappable. “Are you guys able to paint some targets for us?”

“Yeah, we can try to . . .”

Hubbard trailed off as he saw Oswalt still standing there.

“Oswalt,
go,
man!”

Don't stop.

“Oswalt!” Black shouted into the floor, his voice booming inside his own skull.

He pushed against the floor and rolled himself onto his back, a wave of phosphenes cresting across his eyes. Oswalt's dim form loomed behind them.

“Hey, sir,” he said calmly. “There wasn't any satellite phone in Danny's room.”

Danny's room.

“But his ham radio thingy was talking.”

He'd sent Oswalt to Danny's room.

“Saying a bunch of numbers in Pashto.”

He looked stupidly up at Oswalt, towering and spinning above him.

Don't stop.

“At least they sounded like numbers. Like off the phrase card.”

Numbers. Black squeezed his eyes shut against the wavering vision of the big soldier.

Get there.

Pain was bringing clarity.

“What are the coordinates to the O.P.?” he demanded.

Oswalt rattled them off.

“Write 'em, Hubbard!” Black called, his voice bouncing in a thousand directions in his head.

Hubbard scrambled for a pen. Black opened his eyes and pushed himself to his elbows, feeling like he were on a raft in an ocean storm. He rattled questions off tersely.

“What direction is Darreh Sin from here?”

“That's northeast, sir,” Oswalt answered, as though it were the most natural question to be asked at that moment in time.

“How far is it from right here to Tower Three?”

Oswalt shrugged.

“About a hundred fifty meters, sir.”

“I need you to take a radio and go to the roof.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Hubbard yelped.

“And do what, sir?”

Black's temples felt as though a skewer ran from one to the other.

Let me rest.

“Talk to the Apache and direct his fire.”

“Sir, I'm not trained to—”

“You don't need to be,” Black interrupted. “You just talk to the guys like you're having a conversation, just distance and direction and they'll do the rest.”

Oswalt blinked once, but before Black could say anything else he stepped to the far corner of the CP and gathered one of the portable “manpack” radio sets.

“Sir,” Hubbard protested, “Shannon used to be an F.O.”