Читать книгу The Vultures - Mark Hannon - Страница 9

4.

Heading out through the wire at dawn, Rory Brogan felt better about going on patrol. Since Lieutenant Keenan and Sergeant Washington had taken over the platoon, Rory had watched the squad tighten up. Weapons were at the ready, noisy gear was taped down or left behind and the men kept their intervals. Crossing through the free fire zone, they used hand signals, keeping their mouths shut and eyes open as they entered the bush.

Gervase was walking point, two men ahead of Rory. He was moving slowly, then even slower. About a klick in, he flashed a closed fist and dropped to one knee. Sergeant Washington moved up and knelt next to him, stared into the bush, then stuck his arm out to the side, his hand in a fist. The squad fanned out to form a skirmish line. Rory’s pulse quickened as he flanked out to his left, toward the edge of a muddy stream. His eyes jumped back and forth from where he put his feet to the bush ahead. With every snap of a twig or swing of a branch, the blood pulsed louder in his ears. Bugs landed in the sweat on his face and neck and in his ears. Rory fought off the urge to swat them, keeping his hands on his rifle, index finger tapping just outside the trigger guard. He swung the M-16 in a narrow arc in front and kept pace with the others. To his right, Isada looked to the Sergeant, who stopped and raised a closed fist. They waited and listened. Nothing. Washington turned toward Rory and Isada and swung a raised hand back and forth. The squad started falling back into line on the trail. Rory exhaled as he flanked off behind Isada and stepped back towards the trail.

Rory heard the metallic ping and Isada spun around and looked wide eyed at him. The roar of the mine’s explosion blew him sideways through a mass of bamboo branches. He landed on his back feeling as light as air, amazed at a force that could drive him through such dense bush. He heard unintelligible shouting and thought, Goddammit, keep quiet in the bush. He saw Sgt. Washington staring down at him. Grimacing, the sergeant reached out and removed Rory’s bloodied helmet and carefully laid his head on a flak jacket.

Oh shit, I must be really fucked up, Rory thought. I can’t see anything to my left. Voices approached, and he could hear the PRC 77 operator speak loud and fast, the radio squawking back. Rory kept blinking his right eye to see what was happening, but something wet kept blocking his vision.

The last thing he remembered was watching Doc Wilson pull one of the big field dressing bandages out of his bag, being picked up, and then everything went dark.