Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

Rough hands grabbed Parfist by the arms.

  “What is getfooh?” he said.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “I beg you! My family is the other way! Just let me go to them, please!”

  His captors ignored his pleas. Crying, struggling, yelling, none of it caused them an instant’s hesitation. They dragged him until he ran to keep from falling. Parfist felt desperate to do something, but what? Every step took him farther away from his wife and children. As he trotted, tongue lolling like a tired coyote, he tried to think of some way to escape, but there was none. Although they were only vague shadows in the blackness, he knew men surrounded him, men who seemed to see in the dark. And so he plodded onward, northeast across the desert, toward the distant mountains.

  No clouds obscured the constellations. The stars gleamed like polished diamonds sprinkled against the vastness of the cobalt sky. Giant saguaro cacti glowed luminescent green along the edges. Like silent sentinels, they stood glowing in the darkness, their long fingers reaching for the heavens. Parfist inhaled the smell of creosote, so much like rain, and heard the growl of a distant cougar. He loved the desert at a level so fundamental outsiders could never understand it.

  They ran, and ran, and ran some more. At first the boots helped, protecting his punctured soles from further injury. But as his feet slid around in them, blisters formed and then burst. The leaking blood made him slip more, until his best gait was a stumbling walk. The effort to keep moving left him exhausted and parched. It became hard to concentrate. Mosquitoes attacked his face and arms. He swatted a few, leaving streaks of sweaty blood running down his forearms and cheeks.

  As dawn tinged the eastern horizon pink, the mountains became outlines against a sky of iridescent blue. On the desert floor, Parfist could make out shapes ahead. Larger than a man, and soon it became obvious they were vehicles. Many vehicles. Sleek, angular vehicles.

  Salt stung his eyes. Wiping them with the backs of his hands did not help much, but soon enough he could make out details. Most of the vehicles had four wheels on each side and some sort of gun on top, mounted in a turret. A few varied in shape, being longer and wider, and with a different configuration on top.

  They slogged to a stop next to the vehicles and he leaned against one of the wider ones, panting, as sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. One of his captors handed him a bottle and he drank immediately, without worrying about what it was. He was too thirsty to care. The liquid tasted like water, but with a sweet flavor he liked. Its effect was immediate. His mind cleared and he had enough energy to stand and shake sweat from his hair.

  The men surrounding him all wore uniforms like the General’s men. Except they looked new, with no holes or patches, and the colors were brighter, more vivid. The men carried a lot of equipment, too. Not just rifles and pistols, but knives, packs, and bulging things he did not recognize. They even wore helmets, with large and strangely shaped goggles hanging from their necks. Their boots were dusty but showed no wear. General Patton’s men looked similar but much shabbier, with old and worn-out equipment and uniforms. When he asked yet again who they were, he received the same response: silence.

  At length they led him to the rear of the widest vehicle where, to his shock, two doors stood open, revealing a hollow interior with benches on either side.

  “Get in,” somebody said, giving him a gentle push.

  “Please listen to me,” he said. “Please. Take me to my family! Let us go into slavery together. I’m begging you. It won’t make any difference to you, you’ll still have me to trade for fuel, but my children must be terrified. For the sake of God, please take me to them.”

  The man he had spoken to just stared back without blinking. After several seconds he called out, “Hey, Ghost, come here a second.”

  A lean man about six feet tall crunched over the gravel toward them. He wore a different uniform, a darker one. Parfist could tell immediately this one was in command. He acted as if the desert was his private property.

  “What?” Ghost said.

  “This IP wants us to take him to his family. If I read this right, he thinks we’re collecting slaves or something.”

  “Yeah? What makes him think that?”

  “How should I know?”

  The man called Ghost stared at him. Parfist felt naked, but returned an unblinking gaze into the man’s bright blue eyes. At length, Ghost turned his head. “Captain Sully, can you come over here?”

  Yet another man joined them. This one had two silver bars on his collar.

  Ghost said, “This man’s not a soldier. You talk to him while I make sure my team is good to go, but make it fast. We’ve gotta get on the road home.”

  The captain seemed annoyed. “Whatever you say. I’ll take it from here.” Sully leaned forward on one knee, halfway into the armored personnel carrier. “I’m Captain Sully. What’s your name?”

  “Richard,” he said. “Richard Parfist. Captain, please take me to my family. Please?”

  “Richard, I have to ask if you’re one of the soldiers of the man they call General Patton. If you are, then say so now and it will go much easier on you.”

  “What? No, I’m not one of the General’s men. They’re the ones who took my family, the ones who are going to sell them into slavery. Aren’t you the General’s men?”

  “No, sir, not that general. Look, I don’t have much time right now. We’ve got to be out of here by sunup. I’m not going to restrain you, but don’t try to escape. Otherwise I won’t have a choice. Fair enough?”

  “But my family! My wife Lisa and my children are back there!”

  “Listen, Richard, if what you say is true, you might not have to rescue your family alone. Do you understand? We’re here to help people, not hurt them. So if you’re telling us the truth, you might have help getting your family back. But for now, I need you to sit down so we can finish loading up.”

  “Then at least tell me this,” Parfist said, his long blonde hair matted to his face. “If you’re not General Patton’s men, then who are you?”

  Sully smiled. “Everybody’s asking me that these days. We work for a general, Richard, but the general we work for doesn’t like seeing civilians mistreated. I have a feeling this General Patton isn’t going to like the shit sandwich that’s heading his way. Now sit down. We’ve got to get moving.”

  Confused, but seeing no choice, Parfist sat at the far end of one bench, while other men came in and sat down around him. All bore the same letters above the left breast pocket of their uniforms. Parfist knew how to read, so he knew what they said, but that just confused him more. Stenciled in block letters, it read Marines. Exactly like General Patton’s uniforms said LifeGuards.

  Green Ghost found Vapor standing by himself.

  “Everything copa?”

  Vapor jumped. Ghost had a way of moving unseen even when he wasn’t trying to. “Damn, would you stop doing that? We’ve got prisoners.”

  “I know. Are we ready to roll?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got more prisoners.”

  “I heard you the first time. Put ’em in the Havoc and let’s getfooh. Are they zip tied?”

  “Of course, and blindfolded.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “They’re wearing Marine uniforms.”

  “What?” Green Ghost said.

  “I know, right? They’re over there.”

  “Shit, we don’t have time for this. Where are they?”

  Green Ghost found the two hooded prisoners standing beside a Havoc, flanked by two Marines. He inspected them for a few seconds, noting the ratty dungarees, mismatched belts, and worn-out boots. The men themselves were skinny.

  “Why are you men wearing United States Marine uniforms?” Ghost said.

  The question took them by surprise, since they could not see him. “Because we’re LifeGuards, dumb fuck,” the bigger of the two said. “That’s what LifeGuards wear. Just wait until the General finds out you grabbed us like this. You’ll reall
y be fucked.”

  The prisoners stood with their backs to the AFVs. Green Ghost reached over and pulled the bigger man’s hood off. He blinked, even in the light of pre-dawn. Green Ghost slapped him on the cheek, as one might an errant friend.

  “Hey, shithead, over here,” Green Ghost said. When the man focused on him, he continued. “Did you say you’re a Marine? Name and rank?”

  “Can’t you hear? I’m a LifeGuard, but I don’t have to tell you shit.”

  “You do if you’re a Marine. So, are you a Marine or not?”

  “LifeGuards wear these uniforms, so you figure it out, fuckhead.”

  “I’ll assume you think you’re a Marine, since you’re wearing the uniform. And if you are, I outrank you…” Despite his statement, Green Ghost wore no rank insignia. “See these men all around us? They’re Marines. Real Marines. But I don’t believe you’re a Marine, or even in the U.S. military. You’re a maggot, nothing more.”

  “Fuck you,” the man said, and spit on Ghost’s shirt.

  Within a heartbeat, two rifles pressed into the man’s back. Green Ghost shook his head, meaning Don’t shoot. He reached down and picked up a handful of dirt in his right hand, then pinched his prisoner’s nose with his left. Soon enough the pseudo Marine gasped for breath and Green Ghost stuffed dirt into his mouth. Coughing, spitting, the man fell to his knees and started rolling on the ground.

  Green Ghost let this go on for almost a minute before he nodded for a PFC to help the gagging man. The Marine filled the prisoner’s mouth with water and he spat out the mouthful of mud. They repeated the process until he could breathe again, then the PFC jerked him to his feet.

  “Big man,” the prisoner said. “When I’m tied up. Lemme loose and we’ll see how tough you are.”

  Green Ghost sneered. “You’re tied up for your own protection. You’re not a real Marine. See, LifeGuards, whatever they are, aren’t Marines. Only Marines are Marines. And you’re not, so you’re tied up. When we get where we’re going, I suggest you be cooperative. Otherwise you’ll get to meet a special person, one who likes to stick sharp objects into the bodies of prisoners.”

  He gave orders to gag and re-hood the man, and throw him in the Havoc.

  “Captain Sully,” he called, cupping hands around his mouth. “Getfooh time.”

  Chapter 12

  It is essential to understand that battles are primarily won in the hearts of men. Men respond to leadership in a most remarkable way and once you have won his heart, he will follow you anywhere.

  Vince Lombardi

  0523 hours, July 27

  Nick Angriff spent every spare moment brooding on ways of turning his command from a fragmented hodgepodge into a killing machine. He knew that from earliest times, traditions had been important for military units. They instilled esprit de corps and cemented cohesion. Formalized rituals and behaviors created the group pride necessary for individuals to subsume personal welfare to the greater good of their unit.

  The Seventh Cavalry Regiment had a history stretching back to Custer and the conquest of the Old West. Formed in 1866, it had served with distinction until the debacle at the Little Big Horn in 1876. The unit did not die with Custer, though. It won battle honors in both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, and in Operations Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom, and Enduring Freedom. When Angriff went cold, it had been on the ground in Syria. The unit’s official nickname was Garryowen, the catchy song in the 1940 Errol Flynn movie They Died With Their Boots On.

  The Seventh Cavalry Regiment was gone, but Angriff declared his brigade a continuation of its famous namesake. Although he commanded components from all five branches of the armed forces, he needed the traditions of the old Seventh Cavalry. Its officers did not know each other and had not yet established ties of trust. Noncoms had not yet figured out the talents and flaws of their officers, and vice versa. By now the rank and file knew the name of the person next to them, but had no idea how they would react under fire. Nor did the intrinsic inter-service rivalries help matters any. The Seventh Cavalry Brigade consisted of small groups and cliques, and was not yet a cohesive fighting force.

  While they were discussing that over coffee in his office, Norm Fleming recited a story that was funny because it was true. “If you had to explain why the four major services could never work together,” Fleming said, “it’s because they all speak a different language. For example, if you needed to secure a building, the Navy would turn off the lights and lock the doors. The Air Force would sign a long-term lease or buy it outright. The Army would occupy the building and forbid entry to anyone else. And the Marines would assault the building and defend it to the death with suppressing fire and artillery support.”

  Angriff chuckled. “That’s so true.”

  “So what’s the matter, Nick? Cohesion’s already better than it was. These things take time.”

  “Nothing’s the matter. I’m fine.”

  “And I’m your fairy godmother.”

  “Sometimes I hate how well you know me. All right, have it your way. Something’s bothering me, but I don’t know what. I’ve had this sadness all day, this depression, but I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s because I know I’ll soon have to order combat elements under my command to assault an American city. And there’s a high likelihood Americans will die as a result.”

  “You can’t think that way, Nick. You knew this day was coming when you agreed to go cold. We can’t resurrect America without getting rid of the bad guys.”

  “Of course not. You’re one hundred percent right. But there’s still that other thing nagging at me.”

  “Which other thing? I can think of a few dozen.”

  “You know, that feeling that’s been bothering me since before I talked to Steeple, the feeling I missed something? Sometimes I forget it completely. Other times, such as today, it’s like someone’s banging on my front door but I can’t find the doorknob to let them in.”

  “I thought that ended when we confronted Bettison.”

  “I thought so, too. But I’m having those same thoughts again. My mind keeps telling me I’m still missing something, and it’s bugging the shit out of me.”

  “Go to bed, get some sleep. You’re not twenty-five any more. You can’t keep pushing yourself forever. We need you fresh and healthy.”

  “Sleep,” Angriff said, glancing upward. “Don’t I wish… but I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

  “Which might be sooner than you think, unless you start taking care of yourself.”

  “The Seventh Cavalry Brigade has no traditions of its own, and I’m determined to establish some. The first will be the commanding officer greeting task forces when they return from a mission.”

  “I thought you worked on those logistics projections with Colonel Schiller all night last night.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did.”

  “Oh. I exaggerated.”

  And so, despite heavy eyelids, he stood in the open southwest portal as Task Force Kicker rumbled into view. With no jacket and rolled-up shirt sleeves, the implication was clear. If the arriving troops needed help, he would get his hands dirty. He strapped his famed twin Desert Eagle pistols tight around his waist, although in combat he wore them in shoulder holsters. Like Patton, he considered them a vital part of his persona. Beside him, as always, was Colonel Walling.

  The mission had been dangerous in the extreme. Not only had it been the first time the SEALs had operated in their platoons, but it was also the first cooperative mission with the recon Marines. And it had been a spectacular success. The SEALs had not been spotted and they had grabbed prisoners. The Marine transport and mission security had been flawless. Not only would they now have full knowledge of what awaited them in Prescott, they’d suffered no losses. Angriff knew that would not last.

  When the lead Humvee crossed into the mountain, the driver held out his left hand and Angriff slapped it. Around him were an assortment of technicians, officers, engineers, maintenance crew,
and onlookers. The report of prisoners in Marine uniforms had spread throughout the base and anybody who could step away from duties came to get a look at them. The rest of the Marine battalion stood glaring and with arms folded.

  Humvees led the convoy, then half of the LAV-25s, with the Havocs in the middle and the rest of the LAVs bringing up the rear. Once all were within the enormous western parking garage, the great double doors slid closed with a clang.

  Angriff once again mingled with the returning Marines and slapped the backs of the SEALs, helping several out of their gear, asking questions and spreading praise. Captain Sully walked over and saluted, which Angriff returned. Green Ghost followed.

  “Task Force Kicker all present and accounted for, sir,” Sully said.

  “Excellent work, Captain. Report to your CO; I’m not here to disrupt chain of command. When you’ve done that, come see me, unless Colonel Berger needs you for something else.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “He’s a good man,” Green Ghost said once Sully was out of earshot. “It was a good op, boss.”

  “No problems?”

  Green Ghost shrugged. “Little stuff, no big deal, about like a training exercise. The SEALs are good, Sully’s got his recon company combat ready, and we got prisoners.”

  “So I heard. Any intel yet?”

  “Two are wearing Marine uniforms and are decidedly hostile. They call themselves LifeGuards, whatever the fuck that is. The other appears to be a civilian. Keeps yelling about his family and becoming a slave.”

  “Slave?”

  “That’s what he keeps saying.”

  “I want to meet these prisoners.”

  Norm Fleming said nothing, but smirked. Angriff noticed, waited a few seconds, and turned on his exec. “What?”

  “Isn’t interrogating prisoners the job of S-2?” Fleming said. “You know, chain of command and all.”

  “Kordibowsky will get his crack at them. I just want to see what these Guards look like, and why they’re wearing Marine uniforms.”