The Line

by Bob Mayer

  "Chopper's inbound, sir," Lanscom informed him. "Two minutes out."

  Boomer reached out and grabbed the handset for the Satcom radio. "Thunder Point, this is Mustang. Over."

  "This is Thunder Point. Over."

  Boomer's voice was harsh as he reported. "We've got a fuck-up here. We hit the target, but it was a friendly. Looks like a bus full of NATO inspectors. Over."

  Colonel Decker didn't hesitate. "Get out of there ASAP. Over."

  "There's wounded down there. We need to help them. Over."

  "Negative, Mustang. Over."

  "Let me talk to my six. Over," Boomer said, trying to get a hold of his commanding officer.

  "Your six is not available. Exfil immediately. You are not to render any assistance. You are not to compromise your presence. That's an order. Over."

  Boomer held the handset, unable to reply. He felt the gaze of the other members of his team upon him.

  Colonel Decker's voice took on an edge of anxiety at the lack of reply. "Mustang, do you hear me? Mustang? Confirm that you will comply with your orders. Over."

  "Let's get down there," Boomer ordered his men, dropping the handset.

  "Thunder Point says to exfiltrate," Martin objected, pointing at the radio.

  "And I say let's get down there and help who we can. We'll put the wounded on board the chopper and take them back to Turkey."

  Martin shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but we have to obey orders."

  Boomer stared at his executive officer. The sound of helicopter blades started to override the cries of the wounded.

  Martin half lifted his AK-74, in a vaguely threatening gesture in Boomer's direction.

  "You're going to have to shoot me in the back if that's what you're thinking," Boomer snapped. He turned and started downslope. Behind him, Martin lowered the weapon and grabbed the handset for the Satcom radio, rapidly speaking into it.

  Boomer was less than twenty feet from the road, when the Hind-D changed its landing pattern, roared up the road, and the 12.7mm Gatling gun in the nose opened fire. Boomer threw himself to the ground as bullets tore through the carnage his team had wrought, effectively finishing the job. The survivors were caught in the open and thrown about like rag dolls as the heavy metal-jacketed bullets tore into them. The helicopter banked and flew back, doing another gun run, taking care of those who had hidden in the drainage ditch. The aircraft flared just beyond the wreckage of the bus and slowly settled down to land.

  Boomer stood and stepped out into the road. He bent over the closest body. There was no doubt the man was dead, his chest was torn open and half his head gone. Boomer checked the pockets, then quickly ran to the other bodies. All dead and most unidentifiable. The rest of his team came running down the hill toward the beckoning doors of the helicopter. Reluctantly, Boomer turned and followed them, stepping up and through the door into the waiting womb of the cargo bay. The helicopter immediately lifted and headed south to safety.

  Boomer had something in his hands, a small piece of plastic. Turning it toward the red glow of the cargo bay, he read the lettering. He briefly froze and a look of anguish coursed across his face. He stuffed it back into the pocket over his heart.

  Boomer spent the rest of the return trip in silence, ignoring the other members of his team. The one time Lanscom nudged him, holding out the handset of the Satcom to answer an incoming message from Thunder Point, Boomer simply pointed at Captain Martin. Lanscom took the radio over to the executive officer, who spent a good portion of the trip speaking into the handset. Boomer unhooked his FM radio and stuffed the earpiece into his vest pocket.

  The noise inside the helicopter, loud enough to drown out any attempt at normal conversation, made the ride a curiously silent one. Each man was coming off the adrenaline rush of the action, and each was weighing the potential consequences.

  At the airfield in northern Turkey, the helicopter landed and was immediately directed into a secure hangar where the doors swung shut as protection from prying eyes. The helicopter came to a halt. The sound of the engines decreased as the pilots began shutting the bird down. The side door opened and a soldier stuck his head in. "The Colonel's waiting for you."

  As the other members of the team stood up to exit the bird, Boomer grabbed Captain Martin's arm and pulled him down into the seat next to him. "What the fuck happened back there, Pete?" he asked, finally able to be heard.

  "What do you mean?" Martin asked, jerking his arm out of Boomer's grip.

  "You told the pilots to strafe, didn't you?"

  Martin couldn't meet his commanding officer's eyes. "Those were our orders."

  "We killed our own," Boomer said. "You damn near killed me."

  "You shouldn't have gone down there, Boomer," Martin said. The younger man shook his head. "It was messed up, but once the shit starts hitting the fan you got to play it out as it lays."

  "That's what you call it?" Boomer asked incredulously. "Strafing wounded friendlies? Playing it out?"

  Martin nervously shrugged.

  Boomer poked him hard on the shoulder. "You ever pull a weapon on me again, I'll kill you."

  Martin exited the aircraft without another word. Boomer angrily got to his feet and followed. In the hangar he walked to the brightly lit corner where the communications console was set up and the maps were tacked to plywood walls. Colonel Decker was there along with Colonel Forster, Boomer's immediate superior in Delta Force. Boomer's hand slid into the pocket of the greatcoat he was wearing and reappeared with two pieces of cloth. He threw them down onto the folding table in front of the two senior officers without a word. A small, blood-stained American flag with a Velcro backing along with a NATO blue beret lay there, frozen in the bright glow of the overhead lights.

  Forster glanced at the patches, then at Boomer. "I heard. I'm sorry."

  Boomer's eyes were locked on Colonel Decker's. He ignored the other members of the team as they gathered around, Captain Martin keeping a safe distance away.

  "Do you have a problem, major?" Decker asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  Boomer stiffened. "No, sir, you have a problem. The target that you identified and confirmed for destruction was a busload of NATO officers from one of the inspection teams in-country. I took that shoulder patch and beret from one of the bodies. An American body."

  "It was a mistake," Decker said. "We received some bad intelligence."

  "Bad intelligence?" Boomer was stunned. "I counted at least six bodies outside that bus, and God knows how many were inside."

  "It's done," Forster quietly said. "It was a mistake and it's done. Let it go, Boomer. There's nothing we can do right now."

  Boomer twisted his head. "Let it go? Sir, my men just killed some of our own." His finger pointed at the patch, shaking with emotion. "How the fuck could Intelligence get that screwed up? You were tracking that damn bus since it left—."

  "But we couldn't tell who was in it," Decker quickly interjected. "That was your job on the ground."

  Boomer stepped back in surprise at the last comment. "My job? It was oh-dark-thirty in the morning there. Those vehicles were moving about forty miles an hour into my kill zone. You gave me final authorization for a go on the mission. I tried to abort," he said, throwing a hard look at Captain Martin, "but it was too late by the time I recognized the markings on the bus."

  "Sounds like you made the mistake, major," Decker said.

  Boomer took a step toward Decker, his eyes blazing.

  "Listen," Forster said, holding both hands up and moving between the two men. "Let's not be getting into a pissing contest about whose fault things are. It's done. We've run seven different ops here into the Ukraine and this is the first one that went wrong. I don't like it. Nobody likes it, but our luck was bound to run out sooner or later. Let's be glad you all made it back all right, and we'll make damn sure something like this never happens again."

  Decker picked up the flag and beret and stuffed them into his fatigue pants pocket, then tur
ned an emotionless gaze on Boomer. "Your boss is right. We don't like it, but that's the way it goes sometimes. There are things going on that you aren't cleared to know. We were obviously fed false intelligence on this mission. It might even have been a deliberate setup. A lot of strange things have been going on since the interception of that Backfire. But it's done, and we need to make the best of it."

  "The best of it?" Boomer asked. "How can you make the best of it?"

  "That's not your concern, major."

  "It damn well is my concern," Boomer replied angrily.

  "Major!" Decker snapped. "That's enough." He turned to Forster. "I want this man relieved of duties immediately."

  Forster bristled. "This is my command."

  "It won't be much longer if you don't do what I say," Decker warned.

  Forster glared at the other officer for several seconds before replying. "I'll take care of it. You," he added, still looking at Decker, "watch what you say to my people. This was your mission and you take responsibility for what happened."

  Decker pointed at Boomer. "I want him out of this area of operations before close of business today." With that he turned and strode out of the hanger.

  Forster waited until he was gone, then faced his subordinate. "I'm sorry, Boomer."

  From the tone of his commander's voice, Boomer knew what the words meant. He was stunned. "You're going to let that asshole dictate what you do?"

  "He works directly for the Joint Chiefs, Boomer," Forster explained. "I think the best thing to do is to get you out of here before someone goes headhunting to lay blame for this mission. It's for your own good. I'll cover your ass and take care of things here."

  CHAPTER 2

  MAKAKILO CITY. OAHU. HAWAIIAN

  ISLANDS

  29 NOVEMBER

  8:00 A.M. LOCAL/1800 ZULU

  The computer screen glowed in the darkened room. A woman sat in front of it, her glasses reflecting the electronic images. She was still except for the repetitive tapping of her right index finger on the scroll key. As her finger brought forth the words, she read:

  18 DECEMBER 1945, EARLY MORNING

  HEIDELBERG, GERMANY

  "I'm dying, aren't I?"

  The nurse put down the book she had been reading and stood—it was necessary in order for the patient to be able to see her. His head was immobile; a large plaster collar had been placed around the neck earlier in the day to replace the surgical hooks that had been implanted in his cheeks eight days ago to keep the head immobile and relieve pressure on the spine.

  Colonel Hill, the hospital commander, had left standing orders that everyone was to stand in easy eyesight of the patient when addressing him. Given who the patient was, they were orders no one dared disobey.

  The nurse leaned over and wiped the slight sheen of sweat off the old man's forehead without answering. The general bore her silence for almost ten seconds, the flinty eyes following her every movement.

  "No one around here will tell me a damn thing," he rasped. "They act like I'm an old lady who can't handle the truth. They even told me today that I'll be flying home on the thirteenth.'' He finally caught her with his eyes; the only way he could keep attention nowadays other than with his voice. "You can tell me, and I give you my word that I won’t tell anyone.''

  She met his gaze, her face blank, her voice flat. "Yes. You 're dying.''

  A slight sigh was the only sign he'd heard. The eyes turned straight ahead, staring up at the ceiling. The nurse picked up her book and sat back down. For the rest of her four-hour shift the only sounds were the rustle of paper as she turned the pages and the general's steady breathing.

  19 DECEMBER 1945, EARLY MORNING

  "You're damn quiet," the general muttered.

  The nurse briefly glanced up from her book, then resumed reading.

  "Everybody else, all they do is talk, talk, talk, but they never say anything,'' he continued, speaking to the white-painted ceiling. The bed was in the middle of a sixteen-by-fourteen-foot space that had served as a utility room. It had been stripped bare for the general, the only private room in the hospital. There were two MPs outside the doors. They were necessary during the daytime to screen the visitors who streamed in. In the early hours of the morning, during the nurse's shift, she and the general were usually alone.

  The old man coughed, his body shifting as much as his condition allowed. "I appreciate you telling me the truth yesterday. A man ought to have the right to know the truth about himself. Especially when he's dying."

  The nurse slowly closed the book and stood, moving so that he could see her. She reached up and checked the collar. He caught the glint of gold on her left hand. "You're married?"

  "Yes."

  "You look damn young to be married. How old are you?''

  "Twenty."

  "How long have you been married?"

  "Two years."

  "That's a long time during a war,'' the general muttered. "Where's your husband? Is he in the service?"

  "He was." Her voice was cold

  "Where is he now? Mustered out?"

  "He's dead."

  The general's eyes narrowed. "Dead? How?"

  "The war."

  "Where?"

  "Hammelburg."

  The general averted his eyes, looking across the bed to the far wall for several minutes. The nurse stood still, silently staring down at him. Finally he looked back. "Task Force Baum?"

  "Task Force Baum," she confirmed.

  The tip of the general's tongue appeared, flicking against his lips. His eyes lost their focus for several minutes, and silence reigned as each occupant of the room remained lost in their own thoughts. The general was the first to break the silence. "That was a mistake.''

  "I know."

  His eyes flashed angrily. "War is full of mistakes. I only made two.''

  "One of them killed my husband and quite a few other good men.''

  He didn't seem to hear. "Two in four years. But no one talks about what I did right. They only talk about what I did wrong and the things I said. They don't want soldiers any more, they want damn politicians. That's why they're pushing Ike. He's good at that horsecrap. They've got him all set to—" He paused in midsentence as his mind reeled in, realizing his surroundings and the company.

  The room returned to silence. The nurse sat back down, but she left the book lying on the floor, her gaze boring into the wasted body lying in the bed. After thirty minutes, the general spoke once, briefly, his voice so low it almost was inaudible. "I'm sorry."

  She picked the book back up.

  20 DECEMBER 1945, EARLY MORNING

  The question was purely professional. "How is he?"

  The outgoing nurse shrugged. "Not good. He had a bad coughing spell slightly after ten. We gave him phenobarbital, but the coughing kept up. We followed that with codeine. He coughed up some blood twice and Dr. Spurling thinks it's an embolism. He's dyspnoic and suffering from cyanosis. Respiration is rapid and erratic.''

  She pointed at the bed. "We put him on oxygen and that's helped some. Dr. Spurling's on call. He was in here twenty minutes ago to take a look." She handed over the patient's chart. "He's sleeping now.'' With that, she was gone, leaving the room in silence.

  The nurse checked her patient. His chest was rising and falling very slowly and with great difficulty. The eyes were closed. She was just about to sit down when the eyes flashed open and blinked. "They came today,'' he muttered under the oxygen mask.

  The nurse frowned. The general had dozens of visitors each day. He had never before commented on any of them, not even his wife when she had flown in from the states with the famous neurosurgeon who had been able to do nothing to help the patient. She looked at the chart. His situation had most definitely taken a turn for the worse.

  "Take it off," he said.

  The nurse didn't argue. She reached forward and unfastened the oxygen mask, letting it lie next to his head, shutting off the valve on the tank.

  He could spe
ak more clearly now, although he had to pause between every few words to catch his breath. "They weren't satisfied . . . that I'm in here flat . . . on my ass dying. They were worried . . . that I still might cause . . . trouble. '' His breath came out in a long rattle. "I gave them their damn gold," he muttered. "You think they'd be . . . happy with that.''

  The nurse put the chart back and sat down.

  The general hacked in what might have been an attempt at a chuckle. "They talked about . . . Task Force Baum too. Everyone blames me for . . . that because my son-in-law . . . was at that prisoner of war camp . . . but liberating that camp wasn 't . . . the real reason we sent . . . the Task Force out."

  For the first time, the nurse looked interested. "Who came today?" She stood so they could make eye contact.

  The general took a few deep breaths. "Ike sent them. Marshall's hatchet boy . . . Hooker, he was in charge. Flew all the way in . . . from D.C. At least Beatrice kept . . . Smith out. That simpering ass-kisser."

  "Who's Hooker?"

  His voice was a whisper. "The Line. "

  The nurse frowned. "The Line?"

  The general closed his eyes. "I really am dying. I can feel it. The doctors said . . . I was getting better, but—" He paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. "I said I was sorry . . . about your husband. I am. But it wasn't . . . my fault. Baum was sent out after . . . the damn gold . . . to get it before the Russians did. I had to take the heat . . . and make up that crap about the . . . prison camp when it all went to shit. Hell, I could have given them the damn money . . . they didn't need to try for the gold . . .we weren't even sure where it was.''

  "Gold?" The nurse asked

  "The Reich's reserves and . . . all the crap those Hun bastards plundered. The Army found most of it . . . just two months ago. Then we . . . The Line that is . . . had to give it up . . . couldn't keep it quiet. But the other find . . . outside Hammelburg . . . not much . . . about two million . . . that we got and kept . . . or should I say they got it.''