The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The front gate began to open. The chanting grew louder, but the local police seemed to have things in hand. Staff Sergeant Child could glimpse the flashing lights of the motorcycle cops coming down the road.

  “Detail, atten—HUT!” Child brought the three of them to attention.

  The motorcycle cops stopped at the sides of the gate, and the first black Suburban entered the courtyard. It drove past the red carpet, and several secret service agents hopped out. The next Suburban entered the courtyard, then pulled to the right. More agents got out along with some staff members holding briefcases or talking on phones.

  The third Suburban came right up to the red carpet. An agent rushed over to open the door, and President Michael Eduardo stepped out. He turned and waved to the chanting crowd as the Ambassador and the Embassy Staff Secretary got out of the other side and hurried over to lead the president down the red carpet.

  “Detail, present HARMS!” Child shouted out as he heard Crocker and Ashley bring their rifles up.

  The final Suburban entered the courtyard. Child could hear the gate begin to close. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ambassador Tankersly place his hand in the small of the president’s back and point down the red carpet. The president took a step down the carpet, not acknowledging the Color Guard. Staff Sergeant Child felt anger rise up within him. He knew the president did not like Marines. But this was the US flag he was holding.

  On the other side of the red carpet, Special Agent Freely was pacing alongside the president, eyes not looking at the commander-in-chief but rather glancing back-and-forth at just about everything else. He suddenly stopped and looked up.

  Chapter 5

  Late Tuesday Morning, US Embassy, New Delhi

  “Grizzly turning onto Sadar Patel Marg. ETA 5 minutes.” The Special Agent in the front passenger seat spoke into his shoulder mic.

  Michael Antonio David Eduadro, 48th President of the United States, settled back into the soft leather of the Suburban. He ran his hands over the seat, taking in the texture. There were Suburbans, and then there were Suburbans. When he was a child, his father had had a Suburban, taking him to the ranches and tracks where he made his living as a farrier. A work truck, his father’s Suburban rode like it, even with the heavy-duty suspension installed to handle the extra weight of the equipment. Now this, this was different. This was like riding a tank—a luxury tank, to-be-sure. Even sitting in the back, he could feel the vehicle’s power. During one of his first briefings by the Secret Service in the time after the election leading up to his inauguration, he had seen a video of one of the Suburbans on a test range somewhere withstand a direct hit from a rocket-propelled grenade. He really didn’t know much about military weapons, but that impressed him.

  But this Suburban was hardly just a fortress on wheels. It was plush, from the roses in the sconces to the chilled Dr. Pepper (bottles, not cans, and flown in from Texas using the original recipe with cane sugar, not corn syrup), to the incredibly comfortable seats, this was riding in style. As a senator, he had ridden in many limos, but for a boy from California’s Central Valley, this was it. This was the one thing which really brought home the fact that he was the most powerful man in the world. Not living at the White House, not addressing Congress, not attending G-10 Conferences. Just riding in one of the many Suburbans stashed around the world. Somehow, this was something to which he could relate. Deep in his heart, he felt that he had somehow lucked into the presidency, that he wasn’t really up to the job, that someday the nation would wake up to that fact. But in the Suburban, with his Secret Service in tow, he felt like a president. He felt “presidential.”

  As they rode through the streets toward the embassy, he tuned out most of what Ambassador Tankersly was saying, nodding at times to make it seem as if he were listening. Tankersly was a political appointee, but not one of his. He hadn’t been president long enough to put in his own supporters in positions like these. And Tankersly obviously was angling to keep his job. Approaching 60, Tankersly was into pulp timber in North Carolina. From the briefing the president had received on Air Force One, he reveled in the diplomatic social scene in New Delhi, but he also seemed to be holding his own navigating the tricky path between the US and India, where job loss, trade imbalances, and most of all, the Kashmir and the US’s tacit support of Pakistan has caused some serious rifts between the two nations. Looking at Tankersly’s round, florid face, the president would not guess him to be that capable, but then looks could be deceiving. The president had many favors to fill, and an ambassadorship was one of the accepted rewards for political and, more importantly, financial support. And it might be that a career diplomat would be a better choice for India given the current situation. But perhaps Tankersly had earned the chance to keep his position. The president hadn’t really thought about it enough to make up his mind.

  It still amazed him that this was even something on which he had to make up his mind. He had come a long, long way since his childhood in Modesto and Bakersfield. Driving down the sun-dappled streets in New Delhi, his thoughts went back to his childhood, to his dream of playing ball for the Giants. Well, he never made it that far, but baseball scholarship to UC Davis had gotten him his veterinarian degree and introduced him to Jennifer. He smiled at the thought.

  He tried to listen to Ambassador Tankersly, but he really could not focus. He held up a hand to stop the Ambassador.

  “Sorry, Ambassador, but can we hold that thought for a second?”

  “Of course, Mr. President, of course.”

  “Thanks. Ron, can I have the phone? I want to speak with Jennifer,” he asked his Staff Secretary.

  Ron Neal took one of many phones out of a briefcase, hit a speed dial, and handed it to the president.

  “Hello?” said a sleepy voice on the other end.

  “Hi baby. Just thinking of you.”

  There was a contented sigh. “That’s nice, darling.”

  “I miss you. I want you to know that. I was riding here, and I was remembering how this all started, getting into the school board, with you putting up campaign signs with the kids in tow. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know you and the kids are in my thoughts.”

  “I saw you on CNN giving that speech in Amman. Nice job.”

  “Thanks baby. Nick wrote it, of course, but I can take the credit,” he said with a laugh. “Hey, next State trip, let’s think about you coming with me. I know you’ve got your education initiatives, but I think it would be good. OK?”

  “Sure, if you think it is a good idea. I would like that.” She still sounded sleepy over the phone.

  “OK baby, I’ll let you get back to sleep. Give the kids my love, and I will see you the day after tomorrow. Kiss, kiss.”

  He heard a “kiss, kiss” in return as he handed back the phone.

  Looking back at the Ambassador, he shrugged. “Family takes precedence, even to running the country. Got to keep the homefront happy.”

  “I understand, Mr. President, and I fully agree. I don’t know if you have been briefed on this, but we have implemented a number of family-related initiatives for lower income Indian families. I would be happy to put together a short briefing on them.” The ambassador looked anxious to please.

  “That would be great,” he said, trying to put some degree of sincerity into his voice. The ambassador droned on as the president thought about his last few days. This was only his second trip abroad as president. The first one was a G-10 conference in Halifax, hardly an exotic location. This trip started with a day in Amman, then he had planned to overnight in New Delhi before heading to Beijing and Tokyo. The president was somewhat surprised to learn that he would be the first serving president to visit New Delhi since Bill Clinton back in 2000. He realized that the US and India had a love-hate relationship (a little more hate over the last several years) but as the second largest country in the world population-wise, and as the world’s largest democracy, he would have expected some more attention from the executive branch.


  Ambassador Tankersly’s voice caught his attention. “This is Chanakyapuri, Mr. President. Most of the embassies are located here.” The president looked out of the heavily tinted windows as the ambassador played tour guide. They turned right down a wide, tree-lined road. The president was impressed by the amount of greenery. This looked nothing like what he expected the capital of a major nation to look like. With traffic moved off the route for the motorcade, it rather reminded him of a typical Ohio small town. “Our embassy is right ahead of us.”

  Up ahead, as they neared the embassy, he could see people lining the road. “I see we have a reception committee ahead?”

  “Uh, yes sir. As I told you at the airport, there have been sporadic protests against your visit. Pakistan and jobs, sir.”

  The president had never really seen foreign protests aimed at him before. At Halifax, all protestors had been kept far way for the resort acting as the summit’s headquarters, and most of them were protesting against the Chinese delegation anyway. And in Amman, there has only been a handful of environmental protestors, barely enough to be noticed. Here, there had to be hundreds, if not thousands lining the street around the embassy. He looked on with interest. As the Suburbans drove by, the people seemed energized, holding signs and shouting out. The Indian police kept them off the road proper, but they lined it on the broad sidewalks for several hundred yards from the traffic circle up to the embassy gates.

  As they drove into the gates and up to a red carpet, the ambassador needlessly said, “The building in front of you is the embassy itself.” As if it could be anything else. “Over to the right is the consulate. That is where the reception will be.”

  The Suburban stopped and a secret service agent rushed over to get the door. The president stepped out. One of the Marine guards alongside the carpet shouted out “Detail, present “HARMS!” as they did their saluting thing with their guns. He ignored them as he wondered, as he had done since being sworn in, why they couldn’t speak normal English. “HARMS?” What the heck was that? He turned to look at the protestors, then raised his arm to wave at them as if they were welcoming him.

  The ambassador and his Staff Secretary hurried out of the other side of the Suburban. The ambassador pointed down the carpet. As the president started walking down, the secret service agent, (Special Agent Freeman? Freely?) began to pace him. Suddenly, the agent stopped and looked up.

  Chapter 6

  Late Tuesday Morning, US Embassy, New Delhi

  Gunny walked down the red carpet back into the embassy. He motioned for PFC Rodriguez to leave Post 1 and take his position by the front entrance. Rodriguez licked his lips and came out, running his thumbs along the front of his dress blues, removing imaginary wrinkles. He patted Rodriguez on the shoulder and walked into the passageway to the left. As the detachment commander, he really didn’t have a mission. His Marines were at their positions, but he wasn’t important enough in the embassy hierarchy to stand outside or even to join the crowd at the consular building.

  He walked down the passage to the Ambassador’s office where LCpl Jeb Kramer waited at parade rest. “Head’s up. The president is about two minutes away.”

  “OK Gunny.”

  He checked over Kramer. A former jock, Kramer was voted “Man for All Seasons” at his high school in Des Moines. Despite having heard this from Kramer about half a million times, Gunny still didn’t know quite what it meant. Something akin to homecoming king, but having to be a multi-sport star. Regardless, Kramer was still athletic, and he always looked good in uniform.

  Inside the ambassador’s office, Gunny could see one of the local Indian staff , an older man named Dravid, laying out the antique Russian tea set. He guessed the president would get tea in the ambassador’s office when he arrived, tea a few minutes later at the reception, and probably tea when he went to the head (which he would need after drinking so much tea in the first place). Gunny liked coffee better, but Ambassador Tankersly loved tea, and he thought drinking tea showed deference to India.

  Gunny nodded to Kramer and walked back down the passage to the Cultural Affairs Section. This was a large office with windows overlooking the courtyard, so he felt this would give him a good view of the president’s arrival. As he walked in, he was only somewhat surprised to see Major Defilice and the DSS Agent-in-Charge agent already standing at the window. Most of the embassy staff was at the consular building for the reception.

  The major turned around. “Ah, Gunny! Coming to slum with the peons?”

  “I thought you’d be at the reception, sir. There’s food there, you know?”

  “Ah, but half the diplomatic community is there, too. A mere major could never hope to fight off the Romanian Assistant to the Deputy Science Advisor when there is a buffet line in front of him.”

  Gunny laughed and turned toward the window. The DSS agent eyed the 9 mm at his hip but said nothing. Directly in front of the windows and below were various embassy staff and spouses waiting for the president to arrive. Although he could not hear them through the reinforced windows, he could see the crowd outside the gates starting to intensify its actions. Both the color guard and LCpl Wynn came to attention.

  “Well, I guess it’s showtime!” murmured the major. The gate swung open and a line of black Suburbans drove in. There was a flurry of people jumping out of the first two Suburbans while the third drove right up to the red carpet. A secret service agent moved to open the door, and the President of the United States stepped out. Gunny had never seen this president in person, but he thought he rather looked just like he did on television. Overall, a handsome man, he looked trustworthy. Hard to believe this was the man who’d destroyed the Corps.

  SSgt Child brought the color guard to present arms, but the president did not acknowledge them. “Bastard!” thought Gunny. He did acknowledge the crowd, though, waving as if he was on the campaign trail. Ambassador Tankersly came around form the other side of the Suburban and started to direct the president down the red carpet. One of the accompanying secret service agents suddenly stopped and looked up.

  Gunny thought that rather odd, still odder when the agent suddenly flung himself at the president, knocking him to the ground. “Did you see that? He tackled the president!” He felt a jolt as the agent standing beside him swore an oath under his breath and pushed past him, bolting for the door. Out in the courtyard, SSgt Child faltered, slightly dipping the colors as he took a hesitant step toward the prone president lying at his feet with an agent on top of him.

  The next few moments seemed to slow down to a standstill. They just couldn’t register on his mind.

  There was a blinding flash in the courtyard. Gunny stared dumbfoundedly as the color guard, the ambassador, and the staff secretary seemed to be pushed to the ground. In quick succession there were four more blasts, rocking the window. Small ticks sounded as shrapnel peppered it, but the window held. The group of people standing outside in front of the window, though, collapsed almost en masse where they stood.

  Major Defilice grabbed Gunny Mac by the arm. “Let’s go, come on, let’s go!” They ran out the door and down the hall toward Post 1. Inside Post 1, Little Mac was standing up staring open-mouthed out the front and down to the courtyard.

  Seeing him, she started shouting “Gunny, Gunny!”

  LCpl Saad was lying alongside the steps leading up to the entrance. He was holding his right shoulder, and Gunny could see the blue fabric of his blouse turning red. His mouth was open, and he was panting. Princess and Stepchild were huddled behind a stone column flanking the left side of the entrance. LCpl Van Slyke started to follow the agent, who was now rushing toward the president with a small, lethal-looking automatic weapon in his hand.

  Rodriguez had taken a step or two following Van Slyke and the secret service. The agent charged toward the president when there was a rattle of fire and a burst of rounds cut him down. He pitched forward with the boneless flop of someone dead before he even hit the ground. Van Slyke went down as well halfway
between the entrance and the president.

  Gunny grabbed Rodriguez and pulled him to ground, sliding in back of the other stone column flanking the entrance. There was a blast of answering fire from a secret service agent, and a shadowy figure on the other side of the front gate collapsed. A single shot rang out, and that agent fell.

  Gunny glanced around the column. There were a number of prone bodies lying on the ground in the courtyard. A couple agents, whether DSS or USSS, he couldn’t tell, were upright and returning fire. One agent rushed toward the president when he stumbled and fell to the ground. He tried to get back to his feet when another round struck him, and he fell back motionless.

  Off to the left, Gunny saw movement coming from the consular building. It was Captain Leon-Guerro, running through the fish pond and into the courtyard. Several shots rang out from unseen sources, but they merely kicked up chips of brick and stone at the captain’s feet. Gunny watched in awe as the captain ran, powerful legs pushing him along toward the red carpet. A round hit the captain’s leg, instantly shredding his blue trousers, but he didn’t let that stop him. Then, two rounds hit his chest. This wasn’t Hollywood. Captain Leon-Guerro did not go flying backwards in the air. He just collapsed. His momentum kept his body sliding across the ground after he fell, past the president, shoving up the red carpet, and up against SSgt Child and Cpl Ashley. He looked up and lifted his arm toward the US flag and tugged on it, as if he wanted to take it away from the scene. Then his body stilled.

  Within a few short moments, the remaining agents in the courtyard were down as well. The gunfire slowed and ceased.

  Gunny had pulled his 9 mm and with fumbling hands, inserted a magazine and chambered a round. But he couldn’t see a target. The crowd, which had rushed backward after the first blast and gunfire, was now crowding forward, looking inside the fence. Gunny could see Indian police joining them, taking in the carnage.