gale subsided, she looked up to see Marines pouring off the Osprey’s ramp. She knew they’d make no assumptions about who was friendly, so she pointed her rifle away from them and kept her hand off the trigger.
The TRAP team set up a perimeter: Riflemen dropped to the ground in a semicircle around the Mi-17, weapons aimed out at anything that might approach it. A few of the Marines trotted over to the helicopter.
“What do you have, sir?” a gunnery sergeant asked Parson. The gunny was the biggest human being Gold had ever seen. A black man well over six feet, maybe just shy of three hundred pounds, and none of it fat. Fingers the size of .50 cal cartridges. Arms like the cypress roots in the lakes near Fort Bragg. Accent of the Deep South. His name was Blount.
“Four dead Afghan nationals inside the Mi-17,” Parson said. “That American PJ over there has a gunshot wound to the leg. The Afghan flier sitting next to him is also hurt. More wounded in the aircraft.”
“Aye, sir,” Blount said.
“There’s something else,” Gold said. She explained about the gunfire and screams heard from down in the village.
“We’ll evac the wounded, and we’ll leave some Marines to do a recon down there,” Blount said.
“This is my interpreter, Sergeant Major Gold,” Parson said. “We’ll go into the town with you. I tried to get some help in here even before we got lit up, but nobody was available.”
“There’s problems all over the place with the aftershocks,” Blount said. “We were headed somewhere north of Mazar, but we got diverted when y’all called in under fire.”
One of the TRAP members examined Burlingame’s leg wound. The medic wore the chevrons of a Navy petty officer—a hospital corpsman. His sleeves were rolled up in the Marine Corps style, and as he treated Burlingame, Gold saw a blue tattoo on the inside of his forearm: a column of names, all of them sergeants and lance corporals. Fallen comrades, Gold supposed. Nine of them.
The corpsman rolled Burlingame onto a litter, and Gold helped carry him into the Osprey. As she maneuvered her end of the litter up the steel ramp, she noticed the inside of the aircraft still smelled like a new car. Strange, modern war.
Gold and the corpsman, along with Parson and Reyes, loaded the wounded Afghans aboard the Marine aircraft one by one. Rashid’s copilot walked on board, assisted by the crew chief.
“We will fly together again,” Rashid told the two Afghan fliers.
“Inshallah,”
the copilot said.
With all the patients transferred to the Osprey, Parson went forward into the cockpit and conferred with the pilots. Gold couldn’t follow the conversation, but the pilots also seemed to be talking on the radio. Then they’d speak to Parson again. He shrugged, then nodded. Finally he gave a thumbs-up.
When he returned through the back of the Osprey, he said, “If you have anything left in the helicopter, go ahead and get it now.”
“Why?” Gold asked.
“The Cobras are going to blow it.”
Gold understood. She’d heard from air cav and medevac soldiers about helicopters disabled by enemy fire. If you couldn’t fix it quickly and fly it out, you destroyed it. That way the enemy wouldn’t get any use out of the parts or intel out of the electronics.
Parson retrieved his headset and helmet bag from the chopper, and Gold picked up her rucksack. Reyes gathered the medical gear he’d scattered while working on the wounded. Rashid never spoke as they moved the dead well away from his aircraft, and he never entered the helicopter. Parson picked up Rashid’s checklist binder and flight bag. When they were finished, nothing lay on the floor of the Mi-17 but smears of blood.
“The snake drivers want us way down the hill,” Parson said. “That’ll keep us away from any debris that goes flying.”
Blount and four other Marines led the way out of the field, toward the village. Gold, Parson, Rashid, and Reyes followed. Gold looked back over
The TRAP team set up a perimeter: Riflemen dropped to the ground in a semicircle around the Mi-17, weapons aimed out at anything that might approach it. A few of the Marines trotted over to the helicopter.
“What do you have, sir?” a gunnery sergeant asked Parson. The gunny was the biggest human being Gold had ever seen. A black man well over six feet, maybe just shy of three hundred pounds, and none of it fat. Fingers the size of .50 cal cartridges. Arms like the cypress roots in the lakes near Fort Bragg. Accent of the Deep South. His name was Blount.
“Four dead Afghan nationals inside the Mi-17,” Parson said. “That American PJ over there has a gunshot wound to the leg. The Afghan flier sitting next to him is also hurt. More wounded in the aircraft.”
“Aye, sir,” Blount said.
“There’s something else,” Gold said. She explained about the gunfire and screams heard from down in the village.
“We’ll evac the wounded, and we’ll leave some Marines to do a recon down there,” Blount said.
“This is my interpreter, Sergeant Major Gold,” Parson said. “We’ll go into the town with you. I tried to get some help in here even before we got lit up, but nobody was available.”
“There’s problems all over the place with the aftershocks,” Blount said. “We were headed somewhere north of Mazar, but we got diverted when y’all called in under fire.”
One of the TRAP members examined Burlingame’s leg wound. The medic wore the chevrons of a Navy petty officer—a hospital corpsman. His sleeves were rolled up in the Marine Corps style, and as he treated Burlingame, Gold saw a blue tattoo on the inside of his forearm: a column of names, all of them sergeants and lance corporals. Fallen comrades, Gold supposed. Nine of them.
The corpsman rolled Burlingame onto a litter, and Gold helped carry him into the Osprey. As she maneuvered her end of the litter up the steel ramp, she noticed the inside of the aircraft still smelled like a new car. Strange, modern war.
Gold and the corpsman, along with Parson and Reyes, loaded the wounded Afghans aboard the Marine aircraft one by one. Rashid’s copilot walked on board, assisted by the crew chief.
“We will fly together again,” Rashid told the two Afghan fliers.
“Inshallah,”
the copilot said.
With all the patients transferred to the Osprey, Parson went forward into the cockpit and conferred with the pilots. Gold couldn’t follow the conversation, but the pilots also seemed to be talking on the radio. Then they’d speak to Parson again. He shrugged, then nodded. Finally he gave a thumbs-up.
When he returned through the back of the Osprey, he said, “If you have anything left in the helicopter, go ahead and get it now.”
“Why?” Gold asked.
“The Cobras are going to blow it.”
Gold understood. She’d heard from air cav and medevac soldiers about helicopters disabled by enemy fire. If you couldn’t fix it quickly and fly it out, you destroyed it. That way the enemy wouldn’t get any use out of the parts or intel out of the electronics.
Parson retrieved his headset and helmet bag from the chopper, and Gold picked up her rucksack. Reyes gathered the medical gear he’d scattered while working on the wounded. Rashid never spoke as they moved the dead well away from his aircraft, and he never entered the helicopter. Parson picked up Rashid’s checklist binder and flight bag. When they were finished, nothing lay on the floor of the Mi-17 but smears of blood.
“The snake drivers want us way down the hill,” Parson said. “That’ll keep us away from any debris that goes flying.”
Blount and four other Marines led the way out of the field, toward the village. Gold, Parson, Rashid, and Reyes followed. Gold looked back over
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