"Foxfire, this is Locksmith. Pull up. Let's take another look around. Repeat, pull up." The pilot flipped a switch on his communication array. "Cape Town, we have a large fire on the ground. Target has already been hit. Repeat target has ground fire. Ammunitions target has been destroyed. Request guidance. Over." The two F-16's flew in a wide circle to take another view of the damage.
Five hundred miles away, an American communications operator violently pulled his superior over to the communications panel.
"Fuck! What the hell happened?" The man calmed himself, thinking over possibilities. "Radio command immediately." He saw the operator trying to raise command. He hit a nearby array button. "Locksmith, Foxfire, this is Cape Town. Hold position at anchor."
He waited for command before giving further instructions, and the musician pointed at him, indicating he had command on the horn. "Yeah, we've got a problem. Target already has ground fire. Pilots are requesting guidance."
Across the ocean, the man with the cigar stamped it out. He turned to the brunette, indecisive. "You sure about the report on McCall?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, maybe they got him out," he said, reluctantly, "have the planes do another flyby."
A moment later the planes parted and one flew by again, but this time the team leader noticed something suspicious. "Cape Town, this is team leader Locksmith. I have a visual on a military land transport vehicle leaving the base. Confirmed; it is crippled. Over."
"Cape Town, this is Foxfire. I
have another visual confirmation – a portion of the base's security perimeter has been broken, repeat, broken perimeter. Looks like the surprise is out of the bag. Over." The two planes met in formation again.
"Oh shit! Cape Town, this is Locksmith again. We've got two bogeys coming out of nowhere on radar. I'm blind – can't see 'em."
"Locksmith, I've got your six." The other pilot returned. "I've got positive visual ID. Our two bandits are Fulcrums."
The pilot looked at his radar, unable to see the two Serbian Mikoyan MiG-29 Fulcrums from the air yet, but knowing they were closing quickly. "They're powering up for a lock-on – do we have clearance to take these bandits down?"
"You are cleared hot on the bandits, abort anchor attack. Lose those MiG's and return to base. Return pattern Goose Song to home plate. Over and out."
Locksmith rolled his plane a last time. He wasn't loaded with Sidewiders for air-to-air combat, just air-to-surface missiles to bomb the compound, and his 20 mm Gattling cannon was no substitute for the MiG's 30 mm. He would have to meet these boys in battle some other day. He barrel rolled the F-16 out, waving a thumbs up to the other Falcon before they separated the MiG's and headed out of town. Fortunately, they were pretty close to Croatian air space, and the Serbs would break their attack off at the border.
The two pilots continued their jinkout maneuvers to prevent enemy guns from tracking them. The pilots kept a careful watch on the missile lock warning, but no lock came – allowing them to make it across to the Croatian border. A dogfight would have been fun, but it was better not to down an enemy aircraft when they were not at war. Besides, they had attracted enough attention already.
The man chomped on the cigar. The planes had been able to identify a busted tire on the truck, but it was still limping out of the area. They wouldn't be able to make it far, and the Serbs would be searching the area. They would have to find the phoenix first or the Serbs would. Either way, they would have to change their plans.
The army base was strategically placed to serve as a border checkpoint with Kosovo. The border tower hovered high over the army's supply base, the soldiers inside tracking the truck. The truck had headed south, immediately crossing the border. It was on the main road now, having first dodged army checkpoints. The truck leaned heavily to one side, attracting attention, one tire shot out but still able to hold the weight of the truck. Mickey knew it wouldn't go much further, and the truck's fate was sealed when he saw the empty light come on her gas gauge. He tapped it. It had been full when they had left, and it was barely fifteen minutes later. The tank line had been hit with gunfire too. Thank god it hadn't blown. He pulled the truck over, and hopped out. Even before he could see the nine individuals in the rear, he could hear their excited multilingual chatter.
"Damn, damn, damn! This is worse than Beirut." McCall reloaded his gun as he glanced at Control, a concerned look on his face. He had been covering the truck's rear, without a chance to evaluate Control's situation until well after they had left the base. He jerked his head to Isra, indicating she should continue covering their rear, and he pushed his way through the truck toward his friend. Control was leaning heavily against the far wall of the truck, his eyes bright but clearly in pain.
"Are you all right? Where are you hit?"
By now, Control had reined in the overwhelming waves of pain, trying to keep them at bay. "Shoulder," he managed, "wind . . . knocked . . . out." He wheezed, still trying to regain his air, "We've got," he drank in more air before continuing, "other problems." He waved to the surrounding hillside, referencing their pursuers.
"I'll be the judge of that," McCall said gently, "it's my mission, remember?" He glanced at Control's black tuxedo coat, shining with dark wetness near the shoulder. The entry point was high, on his shoulder, just under the collarbone – as long as it didn't hit an artery, it wasn't serious. He knew Control had sustained an old injury at practically the same spot several years ago when targeted as he left Company offices; it had been minor and had healed quickly.
He noticed Control's other hand had disappeared into his jacket, holding his ribs. McCall's eyes narrowed, and he pulled back Control's jacket, seeing the real source of Control's agony. The right side of his shirt was stained a dark red. Losing blood was going to be a problem, but that could be stopped. He saw the other entry wound, smeared with warm blood. It was much lower than the other one and much more dangerous.
"It's not your wind," McCall said grimly, "this one's hit your lung." His voice was low, concerned. He looked up, meeting Control's eyes, and after 40 years of field operations together and the comradery that it had begotten, their brief glance exchanged a world of information. They both knew this time, it was serious.
"Get . . . them . . . out of . . . here," Control managed, jerking his head toward the family, trying not to flinch against the crushing pain.
"My mission," McCall corrected him, firmly.
At that moment, the truck stopped, and McCall heard Mickey's door open, as he circled around the back to talk to his passengers. Noticing Mickey's head looming over the back gate in the back, McCall put a reassuring hand on Control's other shoulder and squeezed it, meaningfully. "Hang on, old friend."
He turned toward Mickey behind him. "Why have we stopped?"
"We have no left, rear tire."
"Yeah, we noticed." Isra quipped, rubbing her backside. She felt like she had been tossed around like a sack of potatoes.
"And now we have no gas," Mickey added. More than one moan emanated out of the back of the truck.
"All right, Mickey – stop a car, let's get out of here." McCall commanded.
Mickey stopped a large van and assured the driver he would get a check in the mail for it – just to charge it to the Serb government's tab. The driver could not understand the English Mickey spoke, but he was well aware of the gun Mickey was waving. Mickey took over the driver's seat of the new vehicle, but turned around to find McCall. "Hey, McCall – I don't know where we're going. Just drive?"
"Continue south and try to get off the main road. They will set up a roadblock sometime soon." Then, in a lower tone, out of earshot of the patient, he added, "look for anything resembling a hospital."
Mickey glanced at him. "Right," he jammed the van into drive, gunned the motor, and sped away. As he did so, Tatijana's mother – who was riding shotgun – began to talk in an excited, fast-paced manner. Mickey glanced at her and yelled at the back of the van. "Hey, I don't speak Serbian, McCall!" But McCall's concentration was elsewhere as the van was filled with frightened speech in English and Serbian.
McCall returned to Control, noting that he was visibly getting worse. The color had drained from his perspiring face, his ashen skin was cold and clammy, and his breathing was heightened and shallow. "No . . . hospitals," he erratically gulped for air, veins surging out of his neck. He immediately regretted trying to speak as ripples of pain turned into pounding surges in his chest. He coughed harshly, wiping blood from his mouth on his left sleeve. That hurt the most of all. His muscles forbade him to try it again, but he could feel blood ebbing at his throat, daring him to let it choke him. In response, he gritted his teeth. His jaws were already aching from the force, but he could not feel it through the force of the spasms of pain pushing against his chest, ripping, searing, severing.
"Let me worry about that," McCall corrected him, putting a hand to his temple, trying to think quickly. He was painfully aware of the difficulty of their situation. Control was right, Kosovo was still a part of Serbia and any gunshot wounds would have to be reported. That would bring a quick inquiry by the Serbian police, which would lead to the Serbian army, which would lead to . . . well, he was not prepared to think about that. McCall thought back, trying as hard as he could to remember any Serbian. It hadn't been his sector, but he had a few assignments there as a young agent. Suddenly, a few select words from his past came to him.
"Izvinjavam se! Izvinite mozzete li da mi pomognet?" he quieted the talking in the van. "Da li govorite Engleski?" he looked around at the unfamiliar faces staring at him. "Trazzim nekoga ko govori Engleski?"
The father boomed, "Ne razumem. Tatijana?" and looked at his daughter questioningly.
He saw Tatijana nervously raise her hand slightly. "Zdravo, da, razumem."
McCall looked back at the father, "Puno hvala." He turned to the young woman. "You can speak English?"
"Tako je. I mean, da . . . yes, but small. I learn from school, and it is bad for me. Speak slow."
McCall nodded and said slowly. "Is there any safe place we can go where there is a doctor?"
Tatijana translated the question to her parents and grandparents. Her grandmother answered quickly waving toward the countryside and then to herself. The other passengers in the car seemed surprised, even shocked after she finished speaking.
"What does she say?" Robert asked.
"Yes. There is safety. She is part Albanian, but we no hear this before. Grandfather is angry, he no hear she Albanian before. She say she has relative living ah . . . near? Yes, near here. He will give safety."
"A doctor?" McCall asked, hoping.
"No, but he call doctors to come house."
"How long?"
Tatijana turned back to her grandmother, but she shook her head, unknowing. McCall turned back to Control, noting his worsening condition as Isra tried to stop the bleeding. McCall looked down, shaking his head slightly. The grandmother saw this gesture and turned back to Tatijana, speaking swiftly. Tatijana turned to McCall with the translation.
"She says she maybe take you to field hospital, but she no sure. She read letter and think she know how go, but she say she no travel these roads for 45 years. She no know if can find house with doctors – her relative will know for sure."
McCall replied, "Tell her we do not have enough time to go to her relatives. She must try to remember."
Tatijana relayed this information, and the old woman smiled sadly. She moved through the passengers to the front seat, sitting in the passenger seat next to Mickey. Tatijana followed her to translate her words.
Tatijana's father had pulled off a long overshirt, offering it as extra cloth to stop the bleeding. He handed it to Isra, babbling in Serbian.
The wounds were still seeping blood, but they were not flowing torrentially. Isra had McCall rip off lengths of the shirt to wrap around the wounds to try to stop the bleeding. Since the wounds were still bubbling with dark blood, Isra tried putting pressure on the wounds and began to squeeze a major artery in Control's shoulder that was feeding the wounds their blood. After another few minutes in the bumpy car ride, the shoulder entry and exit wounds were slowing, now only dribbling blood. But the pressure she exerted on his chest made him nauseous, doubling and redoubling the pain.
Seeing Control's eyes shut, she gently touched his arm. "You with me?"
Control opened his eyes, his dilated pupils evident, and he blankly stared at her for a moment before grunting a yes. She took his pulse. It was weak and rapid. His breathing was shallow and hurried. His chest rose and fell unnaturally, strangely.
Isra knew Control was likely in shock, so she took off her jacket and covered him up, making sure he was warm. "Stay conscious for me, all right?"
"Mickey," McCall turned to the front. "Pick up the pace as much as this thing can handle." He turned to Tatijana and her grandmother again. "How long will it take us to get there and how far away is the closest hospital?" He waited impatiently for the translation.
"She says not far, maybe 10 minutes. Off road helps make quick. Closest real hospital 45 minutes back," Tatijana gestured back the way they had come.
McCall looked at Control. He saw something he had never seen in Control's eyes before. As he coughed up more blood, Control's eyes held the distinct shimmer of fear. Fear that he would drown on his own blood, suffocate himself, here in the back of this van. McCall glanced away, futilely. They could still try the other hospital if they turned around. The field hospital was still their best hope, though; although it might not be equipped to handle a case as serious as this. Mickey glanced back in the mirror, driving on but waiting for McCall's final decision. McCall waved a hand forward, indicating the field hospital. It was too serious to wait any longer. Mickey slammed on the gas, driving at breakneck speed.