Midshipman Fourth Class Peter Van Slyke also was awarded a Bronze Star. His face was still pretty disfigured, and he had already had two surgeries, but he had been appointed a midshipman at the Naval Academy. It was a presidential appointment of course. It looked like the line of Van Slyke officers in the Marines was going to continue unabated.
And First Sergeant McCardle? He was awarded the Silver Star. He looked down at it, hanging off his dress blues blouse. He couldn’t decide if he felt guilty or proud for having it. He had been offered a field commission as well, but after thinking long and hard about it, he turned it down. He was enlisted and he was proud of that. That was what he knew how to do.
And he was going back to India. A First Sergeant normally did not lead a detachment, but the embassy was being repaired and would open again in two months, and he requested to go there and bring the det back. Cpl Steptoe also asked to return, and the rest of the det would come from various other posts.
He pulled in the large circular drive at Bethesda Naval hospital and off to the right where he found some official vehicle parking. Getting out of the car, he made his way to the front and walked in.
“May I help you?” the older man at the information desk asked before he took in the First Sergeant’s face. He had been on the news enough lately, and with his dress blues and Silver Star hanging there, he was immediately recognized. “Oh, First Sergeant McCardle. Welcome to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Can I help you?”
“No, thanks. I know where I’m going.”
He had come to visit Van Slyke and Saad while they were there, but he hadn’t been to where he was going now. But he knew the way. He went down the main passageway, then to the elevators in the far back, on the right. He took one up to the third floor and walked down to the ward on the end. The nurse at the desk looked up to help, but he waved her away.
He slowly walked to the third room on the left, 3002C. He knew the number already. He stared at the number for a minute before he steeled himself and walked in.
Staff Sergeant Joseph Child lay on the bed, a respirator in his mouth. The formerly huge, impressive figure seemed shrunken and withered. A purple heart was still in the box at the small table beside the bed, and on the bed, between his feet, was the bronze star. His father must have left it. His father lived in Bethesda now, taking care of his son. He had accepted the bronze star that morning without a word, but he had not gone to the Medal of Honor ceremony.
The Physical Evaluation Board and just made a determination that SSgt Child was no longer fit for duty in the Marines. He was given a 100% disability and a retirement date of the first of next month. He would be moved to the VA Hospital in Detroit where he would live out however long he had left in a room there.
First Sergeant McCardle stood there, watching the slow rise and fall of SSgt Child’s chest, listening to the wheeze of the respirator. This was the man of whom he had been, quite frankly, in awe. A better Marine than him. He wondered for the thousandth time that if their roles were reversed, would Child have brought back more of the det home?
He walked to the side of the bed and reached out, taking Child’s hand in his. It was limp and cool, so unlike the man who had moved it, who had controlled that hand before. This was why the First Sergeant hadn’t been able to come up to this room before. He couldn’t accept what this man had become. But now he had to face it, to say goodbye. SSgt Child was a hero, a real Marine. One of a long line of heroes. But now he had passed the torch. And Ramon, Rodriguez, and McAlister had taken him up on it. Niimoto and Kramer. Van Slyke, Saad, and Steptoe. They would take that challenge into the future, bringing that tradition of honor and courage with them to a new generation of Marines.
And yes, he admitted, so might he. That was his mission now. To prepare for the future of the Corps.
He took an envelope out from inside his blouse and opened it, taking out a photo. It was a photo of the detachment in front the Marine House, taken a week before the presidential visit. He had downloaded it on his phone, and when he got back to the US, he had printed it out. Before, the eyes of the Marines who had died seemed to look at him accusingly. But now, as he looked at it, it seemed more as if they were looking at him in support. They were family, after all.
He placed the photo neatly on Staff Sergeant Child’s chest. Taking a step back, he came to attention and saluted. Holding the salute for a few moments, he brought it down sharply.
“Good bye, Joe,” he whispered.
He did an about face and marched out of the room and into his future.
THE PROUD
Indian Ocean
Asad closed his eyes against the salt spray being kicked up by his small panga’s prow as it raced across the waves towards the huge tanker ahead. He glanced over to the right to the companion boat matching their speed as they chased down the behemoth. He could see his cousin Ghedi hanging onto his panga’s gunwales as it was pounded by the waves.
Finally, his first action as a badaadinta badah, or “saviors of the sea.” For awhile, though, he hadn’t been sure it would ever happen. Finding a position with a Habargedir crew hadn’t been difficult after he and Ghedi had made the trip from Galinsoor down to the coastal city of Hobyo. They were all of the same clan, after all. But finding a target had not been so easy. After being launched from the mother ship almost 10 days ago, the two pangas, nothing more than open skiffs, had been making their way across a vast expanse of nothing. The two inland boys had suffered, much to the amusement of the more seasoned fishermen who made up the rest of the crew. With fuel and food running out, at last, lights in the blackness caught their attention.
Now, as the morning sun came into its full glory, they were in the final sprint to the huge ship. “Asad” means “lion,” and he felt like a lion, in the final charge to bring down his prey. He checked his AK one more time.
At a signal from Raage, his helmsman, the second boat peeled off from them. The plan was to approach their prey from the stern, one boat to each side of it. Their targets rarely put up a fight, but it was better safe than sorry.
Their target loomed bigger and bigger as they bounced over the waves. Asad thought the freeboard was much higher than on the hostage ship upon which they had practiced back outside of Hobyo before setting out. None of the other three crewmen seemed concerned, though, so he tried to put it out of his mind.
As they got closer, Asad picked up movement on the stern. Two crewmen seemed to be manning a fire hose. Part of Asad’s anxiety washed away. If they were manning a fire hose, then they obviously had no weapons. As they came up closer, within rifle range, Asad raised his weapon to target the men. Taban, the boat leader, reached over and hit down hard on the barrel of his AK.
“You idiot! Who told you to fire on them? Haven’t we told you that they are worth money to us, but only if alive!”
Asad started to protest. He hadn’t been about to fire. He just felt it was prudent to be ready for anything. But with the bouncing of the boat and the looming bulk of the tanker, he let his protest die in his throat. He would clear that up later.
Just before they reached the stern, a sudden jet of water hit their companion boat. Ghedi and the others were knocked over, and their boat swerved aside to evade the blast. Asad figured they would switch sides and hit them next, but in only a moment, his panga was moving alongside the huge vessel and essentially out of reach.
As they moved up the side of the ship, the little panga bounced around in the waves created by the ship’s wake. Their practice run in Hobyo was on a ship at anchor, but this was different, and he never realized it would be so severe. He had visions of being thrown overboard and being sucked down into the huge propellers and chopped up like oodkac. With a curse, though, Raage jerked hard on the big outboard to give them a little breathing space, not that it seemed to make that much of a difference.
They continued to move up alongside the immense length of the ship, still keeping close to give them some protection from anyone above. Finally, they reached just
short of the bow, where the small curvature of the hull gave them even a bit more protection. Taban stood up, balancing himself on strong legs, grappling gun to his shoulder. Taking aim, he fired, and the hook went up into the air, line trailing. It seemed to hang suspended for a moment at the apex before falling back to the other side of the freeboard. Taban quickly pulled it tight, and immediately Hanad started scampering up, rope attached to his belt and AK strapped over his back. A white face suddenly appeared over the side, staring at Hanad as he climbed. The man above reached over to try and dislodge the line, but with Hanad’s weight on it, that was going to be difficult.
A stuttering of rounds went off beside Asad’s ears. Taban had picked up his Uzi and peppered the ship’s sides around the man, who quickly jumped back out of sight.
Asad kept his eyes glued on Hanad. He was the key to all of this. Either he or the climber on the other boat had to get a ladder attached. The tanker had much higher freeboard than most targeted ships, so that was going to be even more difficult. But they had no choice. Besides the fact that this ship would bring in a huge payment, they would be out of fuel soon and adrift in the ocean. They had to get aboard.
The huge ship began to move away from them. Its captain obviously thought to try and crush the panga on the other side. Asad was not too concerned, though. There was no way the big ship could move quick enough to crush the agile skiff.
Hanad seemed to reach the top. Before going over the edge, though, he unlimbered his AK and pointed it forward. His rifle would precede him. This was a critical moment. A smart and brave sailor would lie in wait, then as soon as the barrel made it over the edge, grab it and use it against Hanad, who would be at a huge disadvantage hanging over the water.
It looked like the sailor was neither smart nor brave. Hanad jerked himself over the railing and disappeared from sight for a moment. In a few moments more, the rope that had been attached to his belt began to jerk upwards, pulling up the rope boarding ladder. It seemed to take forever, but finally, the ladder made it to the top and was secured.
Taban motioned to Asad to go up. He slung his AK and tentatively reached for the ladder. The small skiff bounced up and down in the waves, making that first step perilous. If he fell between the boat and the ship, he could be crushed. If he survived that, he would undoubtedly drown. No one would come back from him during the takeover. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the first rung of the ladder, which was lying on the bottom of the panga’s deck. As soon as he had one foot on it, the boat dropped away from him, leaving him dangling on one foot a meter or so above the panga. As he struggled to get his other foot on the ladder, the boat came slamming back up, almost knocking him loose.
“Let’s go, Asad. Now!” Taban ordered.
Steeling himself, Asad took a step up. This time, when the skiff fell away, he was more secure. Slowly, trying not to look down and very conscious of the water beneath him, he worked his way up. He was never so grateful when he was finally able to reach over the railing and pull himself aboard.
“It’s about time, country boy. Here, watch him,” Hanad said, pointing with the muzzle of his rifle to an overweight, pale-looking man sitting in front of him, hands clasped on the top of his head.
Asad looked at the man. He had never been this close to a cadaan before. He wondered if the tinge of pink on the top of the man’s balding head was his natural color or if the paler face and neck was. The man had a defeated look in his eyes.
Hanad hurried over to the other side, presumably to tell that crew to come back over to the starboard and use their ladder to climb up. Asad wondered where the second of the ship’s crewmember was. He could only see the one sitting in front of him. He warily glanced around, sure that someone was going to jump out at him.
The clatter in back of him almost made him jump, instead. But it was Taban, just getting aboard. Taban merely nodded at him before going to join Hanad.
The foreigner didn’t seem like a threat, so Asad risked a glance up to take in the length of the ship. An incomprehensible mess of pipes and valves stretch back to the superstructure, seemingly a kilometer away. This was one huge, huge ship.
“Where’s Taban?”
Raage had clamored aboard. They were truly committed now. Their small boat was undoubtedly drifting off now, unreachable. It was this huge ship or nothing.
Asad motioned towards the other side, out-of-sight due to some raised structures on the deck.
“And this is our first hostage?” Raage poked at the man with the muzzle of his ancient M14, laughing as the man jerked back, sliding along the deck on his butt. “Kha’nis calooleey,” he snorted out, before trooping away to find the rest.
Asad looked down again at the fearful man. He agreed that the foreigner was fat, as Raage said. He wasn’t too sure about the kha’nis part, though. His rifle wavered a bit. This man was no threat, just a sorry individual. He moved a few steps forward to the man, then used the muzzle of the rifle to lift the man’s chin. He wanted to look into the cadaan’s eyes, wondering what was going on in his mind.
“Pleez,” the man said, looking back up at him. Asad could understand some Arabic, but whatever the man was saying was beyond him. It was obvious that the man was begging him, probably for his life. And that pissed Asad off. Did he look like some soft woman? Was he not a lion, someone to be feared? Whatever sympathy he might have had for the man washed away. He smacked the man against the side of his head with his rifle muzzle, not hard enough to stun, but still sending a message that this foreigner would understand.
“Shut up!” he yelled out.
The man cowered on the deck, arms covering his head, whimpering in fear. Asad felt a brief and sudden moment of compassion before he suppressed it. This was no place to be weak.
“Bring the cadaan aft,” shouted Hanad, poking his head around some pipes before rushing off.
Asad felt some disappointment. Was he just a hostage guard? He shrugged and motioned with his rifle for the man to get up and move forward. The man slowly got up, and as he moved forward, kept looking fearfully back at him. Did the idiot think he was going to shoot him? No money to be made in that, Asad knew.
Ahead of him, Asad could see people rushing back towards the ship’s superstructure. He caught a glimpse of Ghedi ahead, and despite the distance, he could see the excitement in his cousin. And here he was, nursemaid to a fat cadaan.
The man was moving slowly, and they hadn’t even reached the superstructure when the huge ship began a slow, ponderous turn. He hadn’t heard any shots. Was the ship’s crew trying to get away with them already aboard? He motioned to his hostage to sit down. The man looked at him warily as he slowly sat down on the deck.
Asad wondered what he should do. In rehearsals he had been tasked with assaulting the ship’s bridge. Should he go there? He was just about to do that when Ghedi came down a ladder with a big smile on his face.
“The cadaan abandoned the bridge. The ship is ours,” he said, excitement still evident in his voice.
“What about the crew?” Asad asked.
“Oh, we were a little slow. The last one got into a compartment just as we rushed up. Dalmar called it a ‘panic room,’ something in their language.”
“What language is that, anyway?” Asad asked his cousin.
“English. This is an American ship, and we now own it!”
Chapter 1
Six weeks earlier
Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia
Staff Sergeant Burke Davidson, USMC, looked at his Table of Equipment in frustration, wondering for the hundredth time if he had made a huge mistake. Eight months ago, he had also been a staff sergeant, but in the Army. More specifically, he was a Ranger with a solid career ahead of him. But after all that mess at the US embassy in India, he had accepted the offer to go back into the newly reconstituted Marines. He still wasn’t sure why he had done it.
At 17, after getting his parents’ permission, he had joined the Marines, but he had only been a PFC when the
bulk of the Marines had either been absorbed into the rest of the armed forces or been given their walking papers. Burke had been lucky, being accepted for a transfer into the Army, and the Army was now what he knew. Especially after getting scrolled into his Ranger battalion, he found acceptance and pride, and the Army was his home. But when the request came for SNCO’s and NCO’s with former Marine experience to apply for transfers, he got a hair up his ass and put in the paperwork. Maybe it was the press those Marines who fought off the mob in New Delhi received. Maybe it was memories of his short time as a Marine. For whatever reason, he applied, and his application was accepted. So here he was in the temporary barracks at Little Creek, the platoon sergeant for 1st Platoon, Kilo Company, 3d Battalion, 6th Marines.
The 6th Marines was the first regiment officially reconstituted, and 3d Battalion was the first battalion to go on float. After months of pre-deployment work-ups, it was deemed ready, given the Commandant’s blessing, and given orders to mount up. But as usual, Marines or Army, the higher ups didn’t have a clue. Anyone who thought this battalion was ready for combat was fooling himself.
Take the T/E in his hand, for example. He had less than half of his required equipment and little hope of obtaining it. He had brought this up with Gunny Darius 20 minutes ago.
“If we don’t have it, that’s because the Army hasn’t thrown it out yet,” was the Gunny’s rote reply.
Ha ha funny, he had thought derisively, but that didn’t help him get what he needed. He was tempted to call some of his buddies down at Ft. Bragg to see what he could scrounge up, but he wasn’t sure what his reception would be. Voluntarily leaving the Rangers was not something accepted very well.
To top things off, he had no lieutenant to run interference for him. Oh, the new looie was coming, after he finished off some sort of promotional tour, and given his history, he could be a good one. Cpl Steptoe vouched for him, too. But he needed to be here now, getting the platoon ready. No one could out-do a Ranger SNCO, but it would help to have some bars, even gold ones, supporting him.
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