Aruba Mad Günther

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Aruba Mad Günther Page 27

by T L Yeager


  As soon as the crosshairs covered the muzzle flashes, Maddie fired her eighth round. She cycled again, waited half a breath and pumped the ninth and tenth into the sandbags in quick succession.

  With one in the chamber and the magazine dry, Maddie dropped it and slammed a fresh one home. She was back on the sandbags searching the stillness when her open left eye registered movement from the lobby.

  She swooped the sights down and picked up a form standing behind the gore-covered glass. Maddie zeroed him. Just as she was about to pull the trigger, the mark moved. Maddie jumped the sight picture right and fired, hoping to score another hit before the target disappeared. A second hole opened in the blotted section of the glass, but she couldn’t see much else. She returned to the roofline, gave it a final scan, then gathered the rifle to leave.

  60

  Surfside Resort, Aruba

  Fazul tripped over the threshold and fell into the security suite. The bullet had been so close that he’d felt the pressure wave roll across his body.

  Staring at the floor between his hands, the shock quickly gave way to a burning needle prick on his neck. He lifted a hand to the spot and wiped the bloody heat away. A shard of shattered glass came down with his red hand.

  “We’re under attack,” he said, drawing himself up to a knee. The door to Anas’s office was propped open, his brother gaping from inside.

  “The glass is breaking?” Fahd asked from his chair. He was sitting in front of the security displays, being as useless as before.

  “Gaafar’s head is all over the glass.” Fazul stood. He took control of his submachine gun and turned to Fahd. “You have anything worthwhile to report?”

  “Nothing, Fazul. Cameras are empty.”

  He hooked around the desk to his brother. “How about you? Anything?”

  “The drones haven’t picked up a thing,” Anas said.

  A call cracked in their earpieces.

  “I’m on the roof.” There was a pause where the soldiers breathing filled everyone’s ears. “Half of Malik’s face is missing. Three are dead.” Malik was a machine gunner assigned to the roof of Building Three.

  “Farook?” Fazul asked into the mic. The leader of the rooftop defense for Buildings Three and Four was also his best sniper.

  “Shot in the chest. He’s gone,” came the reply from the radio.

  “Dammit. What’s happening?” Fazul asked out loud without activating his mic. He turned his attention back to Anas. “Why did you sound the fire alarm?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t know why it went off.”

  “Not you? Then who? You control it. No?”

  “I don’t know, Fazul.”

  “Of course you don’t! You’re worthless.” Fazul shook his finger at his brother, his blood pressure threatening to pop his carotid.

  He activated his mic again. “Ismail. Tell me what you see in front of the resort.”

  Two beats of silence past before the soldier who’d reported the casualties responded. “It’s dark. I see nothing. No one. It’s quiet.”

  “Stay there. Let me know if you see anything.” As he said it, Fazul watched Anas scroll the far computer. His brother leaned in, reading text in large red font. It didn’t fit with what he remembered. The case of the letters was disorganized. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Anas said nothing.

  Fazul moved closer to read.

  JiHaDi bastards. I aM One WomaN. NO goVernMent. NO PoliCe. 40+ to 1. I See yOu. DO you sEE mE?

  ARUBA, MAD GUNT IS COMING.

  “What the hell is that?” Fazul asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone has updated the website.” Anas minimized the webpage and pulled up a screen showing lines of code that was unreadable to Fazul.

  Fazul shouldered the Vityaz submachine gun. He centered the barrel on the back of Anas’s head.

  “You’re fucking worthless…” He dropped the barrel and pulled the trigger.

  A single round huffed from the weapon. The bullet skimmed the font edge of the chairs arm and popped through the seat into the floor.

  Anas was at the edge of his seat. He jumped, his hands flying up from the keyboard. After a frozen moment, he clutched at his leg with both hands, grabbing at the pants where his butt and leg met.

  He pulled his right hand out from beneath his leg to reveal two blood-soaked fingers. Only then did he look up at Fazul, his jaw quivering.

  Fazul raised the barrel, pointing it at his brother’s face. “You’re done. I don’t need you anymore.” Fazul’s finger tightened on the trigger. Just a twitch more and his brother would vanish.

  Fazul let the Vityaz fall on its sling. He unlocked the door to the office on his left and went in. The lights burned bright but there was no sign of the girl or her father. He spun back to the door, re-shouldering the weapon.

  “Where are they?”

  Anas bit his bottom lip and squinted.

  Fazul sensed Fahd standing in the door adjacent. He turned the barrel on him. “Where are they?”

  Fahd’s eyes doubled and his mouth dropped open.

  “Where did he take them?” Fazul asked, stepping closer.

  “Upstairs.” Fahd pointed to the ceiling with a shaking hand. “The first room on the right.”

  Fazul pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Fahd where the eye socket meets the bridge of the nose. It lifted him from his feet. Both hands dropped to his sides as the momentum carried him up and away. For an instant, he appeared to float at an angle to the floor. Then he dropped and bounced into stillness.

  Stepping over him, Fazul opened the door and sprinted through the lobby, bent at the waist.

  When he reached the safety of the elevator atrium he made a call on the radio. “Hassan. Bring a man and a breaching shot gun. Meet me by the elevators in building two. Hurry down the hall. This sniper killed our man out front. He’s got a bead on the lobby.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hassan replied.

  61

  US Consulate’s Office, Curacao

  The phone rang as Margaret Baker shook the tea diffuser above her bone china teacup. She answered it.

  “Hello, Mrs. Baker. You’re being patched into a secure conference call,” came the young man’s voice. He’d asked for her identification information as well as the security questions associated with Operation Clean Sweep.

  An automated voice told her she was the seventeenth person to enter the meeting. The phone chimed.

  “Margaret?” It was Ray Ladenburg, the Secretary of State.

  “Yes.”

  “I think that’s everyone,” said an unknown voice with a southern drawl.

  “Margaret, I passed the video and email you sent me on to operation command.” Ray Ladenburg’s voice was so stately that it stood out on calls among even the highest government officials.

  Earlier in the evening, Margaret had received a call from the Commander of the Royal Dutch Marines stationed on Aruba. One of their officers had been kidnapped. They had video of a woman and man. The man was a local electrician. In the video he was being ordered around at gunpoint by a woman, an American woman. She’d restrained and threatened the officer, ultimately kidnapping him. Weapons and ammunition had been stolen.

  Local authorities had matched it with video of an American that fled the airport. Margaret had summarized the information and sent it to Ray’s assistant, who passed it on to the aide-de-camp for Operation Clean Sweep.

  “We’ve got something happening at the Surfside, Margaret. We’ve brought you in for your perspective,” said Ray.

  “Very well, let’s proceed,” commanded the voice with the thick southern accent.

  Major General Douglas Graff was the commander of US Marine Corps Special Operation Command, better known as MARSOC. As a branch commander of the larger Special Operations Command, he had been chosen to lead intelligence gathering for Operation Clean Sweep.

  “I’ll start with some intel,” said the general. “First, I can now confirm with certainty that t
here were at least two operatives on the island working separate from the resort. I say were, because we killed one early this morning, shortly after the planes landed. We spent the rest of the day zeroing in on the second. The team is setting up to take him down as we speak.” General Graff cleared his throat.

  “What’s the hostile drone situation, General?” asked a voice Margaret didn’t recognize.

  “Good question. We’ve got a pair of Eagle Eye drone detection systems operating in the area. This morning, after the troops landed, we tracked a drone that left the resort. Prior to that, they’d all been operating on preprogramed grids around the resort perimeter. We were forced to bring down the first drone. We had Special Forces visible at the airport and used a signal disruption device to bring it down.” The general cleared his throat a second time.

  “We sped things up after that. And a good thing we did… about an hour later a second drone was sent down range to inspect the hangar. By then the men had cleared the area and we let it have a look around. Damn thing practically flew into the hangar. They pulled it back to the resort and nothing has left the perimeter since.” There was a pause. “Other questions?”

  Silence.

  “Very well then. Operational overwatch, your turn.”

  “General Graff. Others… Just a short time ago, a fire fight broke out on the eastern side of the resort. Our drone on station registered several terrorist casualties on the roof. The engagement lasted just three minutes. We are currently seeing a clustering of hostages in the courtyard. There also has been movement to bolster the eastern defense of the building. That’s it for now, sir.”

  “Cyber command... Go,” the general ordered.

  “At approximately the same time an update was published to the internal website. Font, color and mixed case letters were used to call attention. An email with the exact language has been forwarded to everyone on this call. It insinuates an attack by a woman and includes taunting language. It closes with the words, ‘Aruba, Mad Gunt is coming.’”

  “Good god. Sounds like it was made for TV,” came the southern accent. “Master Sergeant Lee. You’re next.”

  “Thank you, sir. I received a call from a woman. The voice was unfamiliar to me, sir. She claimed to be assisting retired Marine Staff Sergeant, Madeline Günther. We were in basic together, sir. Fought side-by-side in Iraq with 1st Battalion, 6th Marines. Maddie asked her to call me.”

  “Madeline Günther. There’s a name I’ve missed hearing. I commanded 1st Battalion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excuse me,” Ray Landenburg said, interrupting the conversation. “Margaret, does this name, Madeline Günther, match the name of our woman who went AWOL from the airport down there?”

  “Yes, it does. We believe it is the Madeline Günther. She and her infant daughter were held up at the airport. She walked out when security wasn’t looking.”

  “Madeline Günther... You all do understand who we are talking about here. Are we to think this is—” general Graff paused again, seeming to lean away from the phone to clear his throat this time. “Is this the Mad Gunt that’s coming?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lee shot back. “That was her call sign within the unit, sir.”

  “Now that’s one I had not heard. Mrs. Günther apparently has a number of nicknames and acronyms following her around.”

  “Sir, the woman that called me is helping Sergeant Günther by hacking.”

  “Hacking? As in computers?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s apparently infiltrated the terrorist computers. She claims to have posted the text on the website, sir. Claims that Sergeant Günther provided the language.”

  “Okay. Did our people know about this?”

  A pause.

  “No, sir,” came the voice from Cyber Command.

  “Umm, hmm. Continue please, Sergeant.”

  “As you know, Sergeant Günther is a decorated sniper, sir.”

  “Of course, the first of her kind and one of the best ever,” said the General.

  “There’s no doubt that Sergeant Günther is a bit of a folk hero in one-six hard. But more importantly, sir, the father and child who stand to be executed... The ones in the video. Those are her family, sir. Ross and Isabelle Günther. Her husband and eldest daughter, sir.”

  “Jesus. And there it is. The connection I was missing. Once a Marine, always a Marine. But why throw yourself into the grinder? Now we know.” The general huffed into the phone then continued. “Is RMK taking things into her own hands?”

  “Yes, sir. It appears so.”

  A pause.

  “Can someone clarify, please? We’re not familiar with the acronym.” The voice, asking for clarification, was new to the call. They hadn’t spoken before.

  “Go ahead. You explain it, Sergeant,” said General Graff.

  “Yes, sir. RMK stands for Running Man Killer. Sergeant Günther was credited with thirty-six kills over five days in Ramadi. Almost all of those kills occurred as combatants attempted to run from one building to another.”

  “The combatants, as Sergeant Lee calls them,” said the General. “They put a bounty on Sergeant Günther’s head. They crafted the illustrious call sign on their own and vowed vengeance on account of her being a woman.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Sergeant Lee.

  “What else can you tell us, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, the woman assured me that the Dutch captain is safe. Sergeant Günther stole the weapons and set out on her own because she feared that a spec ops mission would lead to the execution of her daughter and husband. The weapons were stolen for an infiltration of her own.”

  “Yes, we see that. And she’s done quite well in the opening volley. Did this accomplice provide any other details?”

  “She said she was monitoring the terrorist computers and was prepared to take them down if she saw any action to detonate charges or focus in on Sergeant Günther.”

  “Where do we think Sergeant Günther is now, ladies and gentlemen?”

  A pause.

  “She planned to move in after softening their defenses,” said Sergeant Lee. “Best guess is, she’s making her way in that direction now.”

  “Our one-woman shock army. On the move,” said the General. “She might just have enough mustard to see it through. Over watch, do you have anything on Sergeant Günther’s whereabouts?”

  “No, not at this time, sir.”

  A pause.

  “Hue, I believe you and your team have the facts from our end,” the general continued.

  “Yes, General Graff. I believe we have what we need.” Hue Dollar was a Navy Admiral with US Special Operations Command. “We’re still greenlit here. We’ll pass along the intel and consider Sergeant Günther a member of our team.” He paused to take a breath. “Do we have any idea what the Sergeant is wearing? With a resort full of armed combatants, it’d be good to have something to look for.”

  “A ghillie suit, sir.”

  “Come again, Sergeant Lee,” Admiral Dollar responded.

  “The woman told me that Sergeant Günther is wearing a ghillie suit. She told her to tell me, I’d be proud. She’d finally gotten a chance to test out the space blanket idea.”

  “I’m not sure we’re following,” General Graff said.

  “Well sir, we had this idea that a space blanket could be shredded like Christmas tree tinsel. You’d paint it black of course, and then weave clumps of it into the ghillie suit. We wanted to give it a try, sir. See if it would defeat infrared.”

  “I see. Well, that does paint an image,” said General Graff. “Sergeant Günther, our RMK, should certainly stand out in that. A decorated, ghillie-suited Marine, charging headlong into the fight. Gives me goose pimples.”

  “Okay,” General Graff continued. “Anything material we’re missing here?”

  A pause.

  General Graff cleared his throat again. “I do believe we’re officially handing you the baton, Hue.”

  “Wait,” interrupte
d Sergeant Lee. “I’ve got one more. I’ve just received a message from the hacker. There’s a picture of an email that she believes is from an operative on the island. They appear to be emailing someone at the resort. It says, “Military forces on the move from airport. Large group. 50+ heading your way.”

  62

  Surfside Resort, Aruba: Room #2101

  Ross Günther had worn a path between the front door and the bedroom. He’d built Izzy a bed of blankets and pillows on the floor of the closet.

  When the fire alarm had gone off the last time, he’d seen the image of the iPad on the mattress—it had been left behind in the office. He ran back and forth to the door listening for footsteps. His fear was that they were being released and had no way of knowing when or if it was time to leave.

  He was still trembling from the gunfire. More than once, Ross thought the building was shaking, ready to come down around them. The shooting had only lasted a couple of minutes, but it left his chest tight with stress.

  “You know what, Papa?” Izzy asked. They were the first words either of them had spoken since the shooting had stopped.

  Ross drew in a long breath. “What, sweets?

  “I think we’re going to be just fine. The mean men will get hungry… or sleepy… and when they do… we can leave. I mean, you gotta get sleepy some time. Right?”

  Ross marveled at the simplicity of the pre-adolescent mind. Watching his daughter cope with the terror of their ordeal had taught him more than a year’s worth of books ever could.

  “That’s true, sweets– everyone does need to sleep.”

  “I miss Charlotte, Papa. Do you think she remembered to bring my doll?”

  “I hope so, honey.” Ross couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Days of stress weighed down Izzy’s words.

  “Papa?”

  Ross lifted the blanket to his face and wiped his eyes. “Daddy’s okay, sweets.”

  “Shuussh, Papa. We’ll stay in here just a little longer… then we’ll go see if they’re sleeping.” Izzy left her spot at the opposite side of the closet and climbed between her father’s legs. She stroked Ross’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Papa. You’ll see.”

 

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