Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

  Standing in the tank’s hatch, a mechanic recognized him and saluted. Angriff returned the salute, then his daughter’s tank disappeared around a bend.

  Chapter 47

  Through the fogs old Time came striding,

  Radiant clouds were ’bout me riding,

  As my soul when gliding, gliding,

  From the shadow into day.

  Robert E. Howard, “The Tempter”

  New Khorasan (formerly Tuscon, AZ)

  0702 hours, July 31

  Richard Lee Armstrong stood on the stone patio of his villa and wondered if it was time to cut his losses. He had been the Emir of Khorasan for more than thirty years. During that time he and his brother, Larry, better known as the New Prophet of the Seven Prayers, had conned their way to more power than either had ever dreamed possible. Their caliphate covered most of Texas, New Mexico, and southeastern Arizona, and their followers numbered in the hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. Anything they wanted was theirs for the taking, and even in a ruined world, life was good for the men at the top.

  Only two people knew their secret. One was their little sister, Evie, but she hadn’t even told her son, Sati Bashara, about their true identities. Bashara thought himself an Iraqi.

  The other was his only confidant. It was dangerous to allow a man to live who knew their secret. But Armstrong needed his advice more than he needed to tie up a loose end. And so he motioned to the guard.

  “Bring me the Wise One.”

  While waiting, he sipped his morning coffee and enjoyed the freshness of the breeze, chilled as it was with hints of the coming autumn. At length the twisted old man limped onto the patio and plopped into a chair. The attendant poured his coffee, then closed the patio doors and left them alone.

  “Coffee’s good. I heard things didn’t go too well?”

  “The expedition to Prescott ended in disaster,” Armstrong said without preamble. “I don’t know who we fought, but it wasn’t that clown who calls himself Patton. Those were real troops. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was the actual United States Army.”

  “How is that possible?” See note

  “I don’t know, but we got the shit kicked out of us. I sent thirty thousand men out there. I sent every military vehicle I had into that attack, just to make sure it worked. And instead we got our ass handed to us. What other possibilities are there?”

  “The Chinese?”

  “No, they flew the American flag. The helicopters had white stars. Somehow they were Americans.”

  The old man frowned. Armstrong was good at reading body language, and he thought the old man knew more than he said. But his advisor was also the only man he couldn’t really read.

  “So what’s next?” the old man asked.

  “The smart move would be to cut and run, but that would mean giving up the work of a lifetime and starting all over again. You know I’m a realist. As an aging man with no survival skills, I’d last about ten minutes. It’s a brutal world out there, and I’m too old to try.”

  “So what then? I can’t do anything but stay here, anyway.”

  “This afternoon we’re stoning cowards who ran during the fight. I ordered one thousand men to draw lots, just like the Romans used to do. One hundred of them will be stoned by the rest.”

  “Decimation.”

  “Right. They’ve had to dig their own burial pit. We’ll have them kneel and pray for forgiveness until they’re all dead. I need to do this for the disciplinary effect, but I want something to cheer up the survivors.”

  “The carrot and the stick.”

  “I’ve decided what we need is a real military. Tonight’s my weekly talk with Larry, and he’s not the forgiving sort. When I tell him what happened, he’s going to go off. Unless I have a plan, he might order my execution.”

  “Would he really do that to his own brother?”

  “You know he would. Overwhelming numbers are clearly not enough any more. So I’m announcing plans to develop a true army. Then we can go back and teach whoever we fought a lesson. I’m going to tell my brother that the Sword of the New Prophet has grown dull and needs sharpening. For the Caliphate to thrive, we need a professional military, one that can defeat any enemy in open war. I’m announcing that today after the stoning.”

  Chapter 48

  All we see, and all we seem is but a dream,

  And darkness weaves with many shades.

  Karl Edward Wagner, “Darkness Weaves”

  0955 hours, July 31

  Her mind swam in darkness.

  Some spark within her knew she faced two paths, one of strength and one of weakness. There was nothing else, no right, no wrong, no good or bad. The path of weakness was the easiest, like a river current for those too feeble to resist, bobbing along in the gentle waves, spent, exhausted, carried forever to a place of peace and rest.

  For those with strength to fight the current, there was the other path.

  Hers was the path of weakness. Swept away in the current, she was too weak and too damaged to save. Her energy dissipated and her strength waned.

  But some essence of her spirit cried out for help, for the strength to fight back, to survive, as the river swept her into oblivion.

  And someone answered.

  Not in words, thoughts, or ideas. Those things did not exist. There was only strength and weakness, and someone gave her strength. She could feel it filling her, reviving her flagging will to survive, giving her the power to fight impending death.

  Then thoughts and dreams existed again. A voice came to her, a familiar voice, a voice that was part of her.

  You will not die this day, my sister.

  0536 hours, August 2

  It remained hot, but when fall arrived and colder weather came to the mountains, new challenges would present themselves daily. Angriff knew the urgency of the moment and his energy was infectious. He was awake early every morning. He greeted returning combat units and helped prioritize repairs, read after-action reports and intelligence summaries, and prepared for possible future enemy action.

  A big question was how best to incorporate the citizens of Prescott into a viable community. Others were what to do with prisoners and taking stock of food distribution, including the huge cache set aside for Hull and his cronies. The list of things to do seemed endless.

  On the third day, Sergeant Schiller brought a glass of (powdered) orange juice and the first cup of coffee of the morning to his office. He also brought the word Angriff had been waiting for. “They’re both awake, General. There’s an Emvee standing by.”

  “Thank you, J.C.. Give me a minute to down this,” he said, holding up the coffee mug.

  0617 hours

  “You’ve been skating,” Piccaldi said. “It’s about time you woke up.”

  Lara Snowtiger opened one eye and then closed it again; the light was glaring. She did not see the concern on his face, nor the cast on his right shoulder and arm. Piccaldi had insisted on being at her bedside from the moment she came out of surgery, and nobody had dared say no. For the first twenty-four hours the doctor hadn’t been optimistic. But then, like a miracle, she rallied, and throughout the morning she had been waking up and going back to sleep.

  “Don’t pet a burning dog,” she said in a weak voice.

  But it made Piccaldi smile. “SITFU, Marine,” he said. “Stop slacking off… I’m glad you’re back, Lara.”

  “Can I have your scope?” she whispered, her eyes opening and then closing again.

  “Depends on what I get in return,” Piccaldi said.

  She smiled but did not re-open her eyes.

  “Let her sleep, Sergeant.” Nick Angriff stood at the foot of her hospital bed, along with Norm Fleming, Dennis Tompkins, and B.F. Walling. In his hand were a Purple Heart and the most prestigious honor America could give a member of its armed forces, the Congressional Medal of Honor. With no Congress to authorize the citation, Angriff had taken the authority on himself.

  Snowtiger was
heavily bandaged. With her body and shoulder wrapped like a mummy, Angriff pinned the medals to her blanket. Piccaldi’s Silver Star hung below the left breast pocket of his pajamas.

  “When she wakes up,” Angriff said, “please tell her how proud we all are to have such fine Marines as the two of you serving under our command, and that we are praying for her speedy recovery.”

  “I’ll do that, sir,” Piccaldi said. “You know… the doctors didn’t think she was going to make it.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Yes, sir, but here’s what’s weird. Her vitals were dropping, but then she started talking in her sleep. She kept saying a name, over and over. I thought it was her own name, Lara. You know, like telling yourself to wake up, but that wasn’t it. She was saying Sara.”

  “Do we know who Sara is?”

  “Sara was her twin sister. It’s like she was talking to her, asking her for help. It was only seconds later when her vitals started coming back. You could see it in her body; she had strength again. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Remarkable,” Angriff said, his hand on the door frame. “Get well soon, Gunny.”

  “Sir?”

  Angriff smiled. “You more than earned it.”

  Gunny… three up and two down. Piccaldi had always wanted to make gunnery sergeant, but hadn’t thought about it since thawing out. As a sniper, he didn’t have the specialized experience with company-sized units that was usually a prerequisite for promotion to gunnery sergeant.

  Smiling, he propped his chin in his left palm and stared at Snowtiger. “Why do you have to be such a fucking motard?” he whispered.

  Angriff tried to visit every wounded soldier and Marine, but after Morgan there was one person he wanted to check on in person. He found her unconscious, with a tube down her throat and several PICC lines. Heavy bandages wrapped around her throat.

  Doctor Freidenthall hadn’t left the hospital since the battle and looked worse for the wear. “At this point, General, I think she’ll make it. I can’t guarantee a full recovery, she lost a lot of blood before we got to her, but she should live.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. She’s a good soldier. I’d like to get her back if I can.”

  “Didn’t one of Green Ghost’s men treat her?”

  “Not a man, a female. But yeah, she pushed me out of the way.”

  “No offense, sir, but it’s a good thing she did.”

  1200 hours

  “Sit down, Major Claringdon,” Angriff said in a friendly tone. “Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure, General.” Claringdon maintained the pretense that he’d had a choice in the matter. He knew the purpose of the meeting, and Angriff knew that he knew, so neither pretended otherwise.

  “Cigar?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Good for you. Wish I’d never gotten the habit.” In deference to the major, Angriff put down his own cigar, unlit. “Let me get right to the point. In the heat of battle, Major, men often display both their best and worst characteristics. The prudent officer weighs a subordinate’s value to his unit against any slips in judgment that might occur during the stress of combat. Discipline comes first, of course. But discipline needs to be tempered by good judgment and the individual’s value to his or her unit. Don’t you agree?”

  Claringdon squirmed. Angriff had left him no out. “Of course, sir. May I take it this is about Captain Randall’s actions last week?”

  “You may and it is. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Randall is my daughter. So the father in me is eternally grateful to the man who saved her life. The doctors tell me another five minutes without medical attention and she would have died. Additionally, Captain Randall is far and away our best gunship pilot. He does things with a Comanche that my aviation experts tell me are impossible.

  “However, my larger responsibility is to this brigade. I cannot have officers hindering movements I have ordered during combat, and that includes Captain Randall. What he did is a court-martial infraction. But for a court-martial to occur, you must press charges. If you don’t, you must rely on me to handle the matter discreetly and in the manner I think best fits the situation. Which do you think is best for the brigade, Major?”

  Fitzhugh Howarth Claringdon was a well-educated man. He had attended prep school and an expensive private college. During his time at the Pentagon, he’d learned the language of compromise. He was not the smartest officer in the brigade, nor the youngest, tallest, shortest, fittest, or oldest. More to the point, while he was no genius, he also wasn’t stupid.

  “General, I can think of no one I would trust more to uphold the finest traditions and disciplines of the United States Army than you,” he said. “I leave the matter entirely to your discretion.”

  Angriff leaned back and grinned. “I think you’ve made a wise decision.” He then picked up a pen and signed two sheets of paper. “Would you please stand?”

  Confused, Claringdon stood and, when Angriff rounded his desk and walked toward him, he stiffened to attention. Reaching into his left breast pocket, Angriff pulled out two silver oak leaves and pinned one to each of Claringdon’s collars. After this, he stepped back and saluted. Claringdon returned the salute, and then Angriff shook his hand.

  “Congratulations, Colonel.”

  1435 hours

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parfist, thank you for agreeing to meet me here,” Angriff said. “I apologize for the inconvenience of asking you to travel so far, but as you might expect, I’ve been busy in the aftermath of the battle.”

  “Uh, sure, General,” Richard Parfist said. “I mean, it’s all pretty overwhelming. We’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Schiller brought a pot of coffee with three cups, served everyone, and left.

  “Mr. Parfist, during the liberation of Prescott you showed great courage, wisdom, and resourcefulness. My command is a military unit; our mission is primarily oriented to combat. In rebuilding cities like Prescott, we need help from the locals, help from people like you. Would you be willing to help us rebuild your city and the surrounding areas, Mr.Parfist?”

  “Me? You want me?”

  “I can’t think of anybody better to be mayor of Prescott. Will you do it?”

  “I don’t know anything about being a mayor. Are you sure it’s me you want?”

  Angriff smiled. “Does anybody know Prescott better? Somebody I can trust?”

  “Prescott is my home,” he said. “And I owe you my family’s life. If that’s what you need me to do, and you’re sure you want me, then yes, I’ll do it.”

  “There’s nobody we want more.”

  1722 hours

  Angriff, Fleming, Tompkins, and Walling toured the entire hangar. They spoke with every crew, including the ground crew for the one Apache shot down. Although mourning the loss of their pilot and co-pilot, they were bound and determined to scavenge every part they could and, if possible, rebuild a combat-ready aircraft.

  Every helicopter had battle damage, even the medical and transport ones, and Angriff found it miraculous only one had gone down.

  As they completed the circuit of the hangar, the officers reached Tank Girl. Rossi’s crew had timed their advance and cleaned the bay, because they had their bird combat ready again. There were still holes in the fuselage, and scorch marks, but nothing that affected air-worthiness or fighting capabilities.

  When the knot of officers rounded into view, Rossi called “Ten-hut!” and both crew and officers snapped to attention. Bunny Carlos and Joe Randall stood particularly straight, their salutes sharp.

  Angriff stopped in front of them and gave his best salute. “At ease.” He raised his voice, because Alisa Plotz’s crew were using air tools in the next bay. “It looks like you gentlemen have quite the story to tell your grandchildren.” He spent a few seconds inspecting the giant helicopter, his gaze lingering several seconds on the semi-obscene picture under her name. “Is Tank Girl ready if we need her again?”

  �
�Thanks to Sergeant Rossi and her crew, she’s ready to fight, General,” Randall said. “I’ve got the best ground crew on the base.”

  Angriff nodded; Randall said what all good leaders would say. “In my experience, a superior team inspires superior performance. And the results you achieved over the battlefield speak for themselves. I read your account of escaping that last Stinger and have seen the video. I’m reliably informed that what you did is impossible, that an AH-72 cannot do those things. How do you respond to that?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’m standing here, and that’s all the proof I need. When I’m in combat I react. My brain and my reflexes sync up and I just do things. Maybe someday I’ll try a maneuver that’s beyond her capabilities. Maybe I’ll die that day, but if I start thinking about what I’m doing when people shoot at me, then I’ll die for certain.”

  “How does that make you feel, Lieutenant?” Angriff turned to Carlos.

  “I’m alive because Joe… Captain Randall knows things by instinct that others don’t and never will. You can’t teach what he can do with a Comanche, General; you can either do it or you can’t. It’s a privilege to be his co-pilot.”

  “More than commanding your own aircraft?”

  That took Carlos by surprise. “I… I would have to think about that, General.”

  “Do that, Lieutenant. By the way, was it you who gave Captain Randall’s wife the nickname Tank Girl?”

  Carlos refused to squirm. “It was done with great affection, General.”