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The four men in U.S. Army combat uniforms stumbled
out of the ravine, and trundled through the orderly rows of pomegranate trees
at a tired run. Two of them supported a wounded man between them. They halted
at the edge of the orchard to quickly scan the stretch of open ground just
ahead. Beyond was the extraction place, behind a tumbled down mud brick wall.
Camel dung fouled the ground amidst a scattering of aromatic rosemary bushes.
"Go! Go!" panted one of them, a short,
black man with sweat rolling down his face in little rivers. "I'll hang on
here. Just get on that radio."
He slipped a few yards to one side and sank down
onto his belly behind a fruit tree.
Garrick Connolly nodded gratefully in the black
man's direction, relief evident on his square, sub-nosed features that someone
had taken charge and was making decisions now that the officer was dead. He
moved onward without speaking, carrying the wounded man with his remaining
comrade.
The wounded man's right leg dangled horribly. A
piece of bone, jagged and gleaming white in the hot sunlight, had erupted
through the skin of his thigh. A gobbet of flesh appeared set to fall off.
He was unconscious, but when they fell sprawling on
a patch of slippery camel dung, a horrible, bubbling scream issued from his
throat.
"Ahhh!"
The other man, Robert Maguire, a tall, weedy youth
from South Carolina known simply as "Molly," scrabbled backwards in
quick revulsion. His eyes looked as agitated and unpredictable as storm scud.
His big, under-slung jaw quivered like a baby's set to cry."Sheeeit!"
he spewed, despising his wounded friend for his suffering, and for adding to their
danger.
Garrick Connolly eyed him disgustedly. "Go
ahead," he growled. "Get that radio working. I'll carry him."
"Yeah, man. Shore." Molly licked his lips
appreciatively at the offer. He darted a glance at the pomegranate orchard to
the rear, then left, his skinny body gliding across the dry Afghan ground as
quick and as noiseless as a snake.
Grunting softly, Garrick got the injured man up onto
his back. In his early twenties, slim-hipped and wide-shouldered, Garrick
carried the load easily. With slow, careful movements to ease the wounded man's
injuries, he worked his way along the path Molly had taken.
Molly's voice on the radio drifted in, giving their
situation, the words tumbling out. "We got mortared," Molly babbled,
"got our shit scattered, only four of us left–one hurt bad. Hajis coming
up fast. Require extraction soonest! Repeat, soonest!" He gave their
position. "Do you read that? Ovah."
"That's a Roger, good buddy. Ten minutes."
Molly threw himself to the ground, flinging sweat
from his face. A soft noise sounded and Garrick appeared. He lowered the
wounded man gently to the ground.
"Choppah's comin'," Molly blurted.
"I heard. Thank Christ!"
Molly kept staring at him. "What'cha
think?" he shrilled.
Garrick's soft hazel eyes, his one truly beautiful
feature, narrowed into anxious slits at these signs of panic, and they
tightened further when he looked to the wounded man painting crimson patterns
on a patch of sparse grass with blood from his smashed leg. It was their
responsibility to get him out, and if Molly didn't keep his head....
"You all right?"
"Shore," Molly shot back. But the telltale
tremor in his lantern jaw was back, so Garrick knew he was lying.
Nothing in boot camp, or in advanced individual
training, could possibly prepare a soldier for the shock of his first
firefight. The realization that enemy soldiers were actually intent on killing
you. Killing you! He winced, hearing again the evil sound mortar rounds make
leaving the firing tubes–phafft, phafft–and the shattering karrumpp as the
shells sent shrapnel and stones and dirt winging in all directions.
A spine of rock slanted down, providing a narrow
place for them to shelter behind, the broken mud-brick wall offered some small
protection also. Garrick squatted in the meager shelter and waited. He placed a
smoke grenade close at hand, and removed the safety clip from a fragmentation
grenade. Then, he fell to checking his rifle with nervous fingers for something
to do. Long minutes went by. A soft
breeze arrived, fanning his cheek and teasing his nostrils with the combined
scent of camel dung and rosemary.
"When's Simpson coming?" he wondered
aloud, referring to the black soldier at the pomegranate orchard. "He
should pull back. We're gonna be outta here soon."
As if in answer to his question, a lone rifle shot
cracked, sounding like one of the World War Two vintage .303s the Taliban
sometimes used for longer range work. Garrick's stomach jumped ever so gently.
An eternity dragged by, then a recognizable three round burst from a M4 carbine
erupted. That would be Simpson.
REVIEW?
Lost Prince
Gregory Gourlay
978-1-62420-204-9
By Greg Didaleusky
5 Stars out of 5
A perilous adventure for Garrick Connolly in his pursuit for the hidden
treasure of an Incas civilization. The author integrated the story of Yahuar
Huaccac, priest of Incas. and his determination to hide the treasures of his
people during the Spaniard invasion of Peru. It was fast moving novel. I
enjoyed every chapter as the author brought you to a unexpected ending.
Reviewed by Greg Didaleusky.
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Noble
In the 1960s while
visiting central Africa, Ken Mallory uncovers intriguing information
surrounding his great-grandfather, Lucas Lindsay, who fought in the Barotseland
Civil War of a century earlier. Delving deeper into the puzzle, Ken begins to
identify with Lucas, setting to rest agonizing problems from his recent past.
Through the eyes of these two young men, different generations of the same
family, Kindred Passage views the native wars of the 1860s, along with Africa's
post-colonial era. Although living one hundred years apart, the similar
dilemmas the Zambezi River country and its people impose on both men underscore
the basically changeless nature of Africa.
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