by CG Cooper
Sucking in air like it was an ice cold beer on a warm summer’s day, Lt. Heron supervised the ensuing inspection. Three of the five tangos were dead. The two others were shot but would live, according to his corpsman.
The scene secure, Lt. Heron climbed onto the bus to see about the mysterious cargo. He found boxes of blankets, some hand-me-down clothes, and some containers filled with that commercial hand soap you see in restaurants. He relayed the information to Alpha.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” Alpha replied.
“We can tear the bus apart, but there’s nothing that looks obvious,” Heron replied.
“Okay. Now listen. The cops are gonna be there soon, but our people will be on top of that. I need you to do me a favor. You think you can take the two tangos back to the Osprey?”
Heron looked down at the bad guys who were cuffed by the hands and feet but were receiving excellent medical attention.
“I don’t know. They should probably get to a hospital,” Heron said.
“If you tell me they’re stable, we’ll have time for that later. Are they stable?”
Heron asked the corpsman who gave him a thumbs-up.
“They’re stable.”
“Good. Now for the favor. How much interrogation experience do you have?”
“Not much,” Heron answered truthfully.
“But you learned some either in your workups or at TBS, right?”
“Sure.”
“So like every Marine lieutenant I’ve ever met, you’ve been trained to figure it out on the fly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Great. What I want you to do is get them back on that Osprey with only the Marines you need and you know will keep their mouths shut, and find out what those tangos know. You think you can do that?”
It wasn’t something he’d really thought about before. They’d taught him at Officer Candidate School (OCS), then The Basic School (TBS), and finally at the Infantry Officer’s Course (IOC) that enemy combatant prisoners are to be treated by the rules governing the Geneva Convention. But somehow at that moment, he guessed that his instructors might be okay with letting him get a little creative.
“I’ll do it,” Heron replied.
“Thank you. Now get a notepad. Here’s what I need you to find out.”
Chapter 33
Southern California Airspace
7:15pm, March 15th
The Marine platoon commander was good. It took him less than five minutes to get the information Cal needed. He switched his headset so he was only speaking to the men on his aircraft.
“They just confirmed that bad guy number one did board the white bus. Bad news is that the joker who talked didn’t know where they were going. In fact, none of the others knew more than where their respective vehicles were going. Another piece of good news is that the Pope is alive and he’s riding with bad guy number one. Last piece of info: other than the blue and the white bus, there’s also a purple and a yellow bus. They really went all colors of the rainbow on this one.”
Cal looked down the line, expecting questions or comments, but none came. At least Brother Hendrik looked like his nerves had settled. Word of the Pope’s current status must have been a relief to the monk. He hadn’t said much since leaving Mexico.
“We’ll loiter and wait for word. If anyone has a…”
His headset dinged, indicating an incoming message. The computer screen said there was another positive identification from the Predators. A purple bus was spotted on Interstate 10, heading northwest towards Palm Springs. Cal watched as the camera zoomed in. It was still too far to get a clear picture, so he waited until the infrared turned to thermal and the video cleared.
Almost identical to the first bus, there were white dots lining the seats on both sides of the aisle, the back clear except maybe for the suspect cargo. Lt. Heron’s men had yet to detect anything wrong with the first batch of random goods. Maybe it was all a diversion. Go for the kids and sneak away with the Pope. Everyone on the mission knew it wouldn’t look good if the Pope was killed on American soil. Cal had mentioned that to the President, suggesting that this could all be a ploy to align much of the Catholic world against the U.S., but Brandon shook it off, saying that his priority was getting the pontiff back.
Cal switched over to the frequency that allowed him to talk to the second Osprey with half a platoon of infantry Marines. “Longhorn, this is your baby. Use kid gloves,” Cal said. He wondered what the hulking platoon commander would do. He’d proudly proclaimed his undying allegiance to his alma mater, the University of Texas when he’d tried to crush Cal’s hand on the tarmac.
“Roger that, Alpha. Longhorn, out,” came the thick Texas reply.
Cal didn’t roll his eyes, but he wanted to. He had some good friends who were Texas Longhorns, but something about the big Marine reminded Cal of brand-spanking new butter bars he’d experienced in the Fleet. There’d been more than a little bravado in the Marine’s tone before takeoff, like he was itching for a fight. He wondered if Second Lieutenant Meadows would act as cool as his fellow platoon commander. Hopefully he had a good platoon sergeant who would keep the reins on tight.
+++
7:22pm
Marine Second Lieutenant Matthew Meadows, “Hoss” or “Hoss the Boss” to his friends, punched his fist into his opposing palm. He could feel the battle coming. While he didn’t have the luxury of a video feed like Cal, he’d still listened to the radio chatter. Sure Lt. Heron had done a tour in Afghanistan and the Marines seemed to love him, but Meadows knew in his soul that he’d been bred to be a warrior. He’d done his best to whittle down his platoon to those whom he knew he could trust, most combat veterans with at least one tour overseas. He felt the tide swelling behind him.
Twenty minutes later, the pilot gave the two minute warning to landing. Meadows stood up, his helmet almost thumping the top of the hold. The former offensive lineman for the Texas Longhorns bellowed, “Saddle up, Marines. It’s time for battle.”
The Marines didn’t look as enthused as he felt, but he took it for nerves, something he rarely felt. He prided himself in his courage, his ability to jump into the fray no matter the danger. Somehow he suppressed a savage growl as the Osprey dropped from the sky, his insides burning with bloodlust. Soon he would be tested, and deep down he knew he would never be caught wanting.
Two minutes later, the bird touched down, the ramp already lowered, and the Marines flooded out. 2nd Lt. Meadows led the charge, breathing through his mouth as he ran, his nostrils flared like a bull’s. Just like with Heron, this bus had pulled into a church parking lot. The Predator jockies had already relayed the information that the cargo had been offloaded, and that the tangos were tucking tail and leaving.
That was all the better for Meadows and his Marines. The last thing any of them wanted to do was shoot a kid. Meadows tasted blood and realized as he ran that at some point he’d bit his own tongue. Maybe next time he’d wear a mouth guard, like when he’d played ball. He grunted to himself and kept chugging.
And then he saw them, a ragged group of four men carrying weapons headed back to the purple bus. They were probably a hundred yards away, the length of a football field, but Meadows didn’t care.
“Get down on the ground, assholes!” he yelled.
They hadn’t noticed the Marine until that point. The bad guys turned, leveling their weapons. Meadows fired first, almost laughing as he depressed the trigger on full auto. Against what his instructors had always said, but who the fuck cared when the shit hit the fan? He felt like Rambo, charging the Vietcong on another rescue mission behind enemy lines.
For some reason none of his rounds seemed to be hitting the targets, but he didn’t mind. That happened in the heat of battle. Something in the back of his brain told him to lower the barrel, because most shots flew high. He was so intent on keeping his finger pressed on the trigger that he didn’t even feel the three rounds crash through his skull, ending his charge prematurely.
Staff Sergeant Evans cursed for the second time. The first had been when his platoon commander opened his big mouth. Now the lieutenant was dead. Evans knew it wasn’t his fault, that sometimes it was just your turn, but it didn’t make him feel any better dodging the body of his former platoon commander as he rushed by.
“Corpsman up!” he shouted over his shoulder, letting off a controlled double tap from his rifle. One man went down. Three left. He heard someone scream behind him and knew that another Marine was down. Evans cursed a third time. He’d seen too many Marines die during his eight years in the Corps. “SAWs up! ” he yelled, calling for the squad automatic weapons that were manned by some of the strongest men in the platoon. They weren’t as big as their platoon commander, but they never complained about the extra load and they were always there when you needed them. “Don’t shoot the church!” he reminded everyone. The last thing they needed was civilian casualties.
Evans heard the long rattle from one SAW, probably Corporal Drake firing from the hip. That devil dog could fire from the hip better than most Marines fired the SAW in the prone position. It was a beauty to behold. Sure enough, another tango went down. Two left.
By now he and his Marines had taken cover, leveling fire and maneuvering with their platoon mates as they closed in on the church parking lot. They’d done it countless times since joining the Corps, and now it was paying off. Evans saw another tango drop, the side of his face exploding in a burst of blood and bone before he fell. One left.
The last guy had found the best hiding spot, behind a heavy metal dumpster. Instead of poking his head out, he waited, and so did Evans. As his Marines kept the man pinned down, Evans focused on the edge of the dumpster. Just give me one look, he thought.
Tango Number Four must have been getting restless, because he shifted so that Evans could just see the outline of his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate, taking the shot and knowing it would find its mark. At less than fifty yards, the Marine veteran felt it before he saw it. The man staggered out of cover just long enough for Evans to shoot another two rounds into the man’s torso. Game over.
The four bad guys were dead. SSgt Evans was surprised to see two black guys in the bunch. As an African-American himself, he often cringed at the sight of so many of his race flock to the extremes of Islam. These guys looked American, while the others looked European or something. He ordered one of his Marines to take pictures of the dead guys and email them to Alpha while he and the rest of the boys headed to the church.
Getting into the church was easy. Rather than kick in the door or use explosives, Evans pulled out a set of locksmith tools. His father was a locksmith and at a young age Scotty Evans was picking locks all over the neighborhood. It was a good trick when you were messing with people in the barracks as a PFC, but it came in damn handy when you were looking for high value targets in Fallujah.
It took him twenty-two seconds to do both locks. He always counted, a habit he’d picked up from his father. His point man went in first, Evans right behind. It was pitch black inside, so they switched on their rail mounted lights. They’d come in the back way, so there were offices that were all empty as they cleared them one by one. Next came the modest chapel, a simple affair with that late 1970s style of wood and hard angles.
Evans stopped, putting his fist in the air. The rest of the Marines froze. He tried to focus through the heavy breathing and then he heard the whimpering. It took him a couple seconds to figure out where it was coming from, but then he looked down underneath the pews to his left. His flashlight illuminated a pair of eyes, wide with terror.
SSgt Evans lowered his weapon, so only the edges of his light touched the child. Then he saw there was another. When he knelt down, he saw more. Relief flooded through him. He had two kids, about the same age as the ones he was looking at now. He felt his throat tighten.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re going to be okay.”
Chapter 34
Southern California Airspace
7:51pm, March 15th
Cal nodded. He’d watched the entire exchange via the Predator feed. He’d seen the first Marine go down and now knew that it was the big Texan, who they’d already pronounced dead. There were three more wounded, nothing fatal.
Now that they had taken two of the convoys down and half of all the children were safe, things seemed to be falling into place. After days of failure, this felt like how things should be. Find the target and destroy it. Kill the bad guys and save the innocent hostages.
Two down, two to go.
He wasn’t worried about the Delta guys. They did this kind of thing in their sleep. As long as Neil or the Predator sweeps could find it, he was pretty sure the soldiers would take care of business.
And as far as the complement of his Osprey went, there was no issue there either. He knew The Jefferson Group men personally, had taken down too many objects to count with most of them. He knew what they were thinking, and vice versa, without even trying.
The monks worked the same way and had quickly figured out their role within the team. Cal’s boys would do the heavy lifting and the monks were called in to pinch hit. They were cool with that, and so was Cal.
The only wild card, if you could even call him that, was Travis. His cousin was obviously getting his kicks out of being part of the crew again. Hell, he hadn’t lost that battle-hardened look since they’d met up in Mexico the day before. Travis was ready, and he knew most of Cal’s men. The only thing that worried Cal was that Travis used to be the head man, the alpha dog, before Cal took over and Travis moved to Washington to serve the president. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Travis, it was just that Cal wondered what Travis was thinking. It wasn’t that Cal couldn’t play second fiddle at times, but these were his men. Travis would never try to take over Cal’s role, but Cal didn’t want the former SEAL to feel like this might be his last chance at action and possibly do something a little too risky.
But as soon as the thought came, he brushed it away. Travis was a professional, a lethal operator who’d not only proved himself with the SEALs, but who’d also taken the warriors of Stokes Security International to a whole other level of readiness.
Cal caught Travis’s eyes and gave him a nod. For some reason in that moment, his mind fluttered back to when they were kids. Especially the time when they’d gone camping with their dads, and Travis convinced him to sneak off for the day. They’d found a cliff to jump off of into some freezing spring water and Cal had twisted his ankle in the process. Travis half carried him back to camp and got a royal ass-chewing from his dad. That’s how it had always been. Travis, the older cousin, coaxing little Cal to follow along.
Now the roles were reversed. Cal was in the lead and Travis didn’t want to be left behind. He nodded at Travis again and looked back at his computer screen as another alert flashed in bold.
+++
8:12pm
The Delta team ambushed the yellow bus just before it passed into Diamond Bar along the Pamona Freeway. Three members of the entourage ran ahead and stopped traffic using road flares they’d taken from the Blackhawk crew chief. That stopped traffic pretty quickly and not many drivers honked after seeing the three guys with guns, waving burning sticks.
Three hundred yards to the east, traffic ground to a halt. The yellow school bus was stuck.
Captain Bob Anderson watched from behind a tree as the driver of the bus conversed with his friends. The trick was to get in without hurting the kids. That meant speed above all else. Luckily, with more and more cars surrounding the bus, there was plenty of cover to get them in. He let time tick by. As a native of Long Beach, Anderson knew what happened when traffic just stopped: drivers got pissed and some of them would get out of their cars to see what was going on.
Sure enough, another six minutes later he saw the first passenger open her car door. Then the driver behind her opened his and stepped out, obviously asking the lady in front if she could see what the hell was going
on.
Anderson waited until more impatient motorists changed tactics and then he signaled for his men to hit the pavement. Luckily, they were dressed in their most civilian attire. Even at close range, it would be hard to tell that they weren’t anything but curious travelers.
Sure enough, his entire team made it to various points near the bus. Anderson took the lead, his weapons hidden behind his back. He rapped on the bus door. The driver ignored him. He knocked again, this time yelling, “Hey, can you see what’s going on up there?” The driver shook his head and kept his gaze forward.
Anderson knocked again, this time harder. “Hey, I’m trying to get my wife to the hospital. You sure you can’t see what’s going on?”
This time the driver reached for the door handle, and a WOOSH sounded as the bus door opened.
“I can’t see anything, man,” the driver said, already starting to close the door. Anderson stepped in, one of his guys grabbed the door to hold it open and let in the others. The driver went down with Anderson’s first shot. The next two took two apiece. Numbers three and four at least got their weapons up, but Anderson took down the one on the left and the operator behind him took out the guy on the right with their silenced rounds.
Another day, another dollar, Anderson thought, scanning the bus for more targets. All he found were the frightened faces of children.