Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  Steeple stood before a three-foot high mirror that he’d been given when someone had brought his newly cleaned uniform. Propped on the small table, it leaned against the wall as he turned this way and that, tugging at loose folds to eliminate any wrinkles. Under no circumstances would he betray the revulsion he instantly felt for this brutal narcissist. “Adder, I presume.”

  “Yeah.”

  Feigning interest in his collar, Steeple delayed turning for five more seconds, then extended his hand. “It’s my pleasure.”

  Adder looked at the general’s proffered hand like it was covered in anthrax. “Yeah.”

  Wearing his best Congressional smile, the one reserved for powerful politicians and which looked like he’d just drawn a royal flush but which in fact had no pleasure in it whatsoever, Steeple withdrew his hand and ran it one last time through his hair. “Shall we go?”

  #

  Chapter 42

  Usually the first problems solved by the new paradigm are those that couldn’t be solved by the old paradigm.

  Joel A. Barker

  Overtime Prime

  0502 hours, April 28

  McComb stood right outside his cell door and Steeple beamed on seeing him. Clapping him on the forearm, he met the foreman’s eyes and held them. “Well done, Norris, well done. You’ll be richly rewarded for your work today.”

  “Thank you, sir,” McComb stammered. It was the first time he’d felt the palpable aura of charisma that surrounded Steeple. It was the first inkling he’d had of how the man had stayed at the center of power for so long.

  When they passed Major Noshimura, she didn’t know whether to salute or not and finally decided she should. Then she was hustled into Steeple’s cell for safekeeping.

  “That’s why this will be successful,” he said to McComb. “The good major was surprised to see me free, and had a choice in how to react. Confronted with the reality of me being here, in this place, in a vacuum of power and backed up by armed men, she acknowledged my superior rank with a salute. Now she’s committed.”

  “What happens when General Angriff shows up?”

  “That depends on the circumstances.” Steeple was genuinely surprised when Colonel Claringdon stepped out of a cell on their right and joined the procession. “Major Claringdon? What are you doing here?” Steeple said, until noticing the birds on his collar. “Excuse me, Colonel Claringdon. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “The colonel was arrested right after you were, General,” McComb explained. “He tried to kill Angriff and his whole staff.”

  Steeple stopped and turned to Claringdon. He took a moment before speaking. “While I appreciate your support, Colonel, I trust that isn’t some new hobby of yours? Killing generals, I mean.”

  Claringdon smiled. “Only if they aren’t you, sir.”

  #

  Although Overtime was an enormous military base, the sight of two dozen armed soldiers marching down the corridors was highly unusual. Fortunately for Steeple and his bodyguards, they encountered few base personnel at such an early hour, and only two of the ones they did see gave them more than a cursory glance. Those two snapped to attention at the sight of a five star general, and both times Steeple gave McComb a look that meant see? After the second, he raised his nose from ninety degrees to one hundred.

  Every bit of this felt right to Steeple, like a Roman emperor surrounded by Praetorian Guardsmen making his way down the Palatine hill to the Forum, from where he would run the empire. He’d spent much of the past two days planning what to do and say once he’d assumed power, but there had still been idle moments when he’d compared himself to the greatest Roman Emperor of them all, Augustus. He could be ruthless if anyone crossed him, but much preferred ruling with a light touch.

  Instead of taking elevators that would have limited their exposure, however, Steeple insisted they take the main elevators that opened near the Clam Shell. When the doors opened, a private looking down at a tablet went to get on, looked up, and came to rigid attention. Steeple waved him out of the way and said, “Move aside, private,” in a quiet voice.

  Adder posted men on each side of the hallway in both directions at intervals of 100 feet, then 75, then 50 feet from the large entrance doors to the headquarters. Two more flanked the bank of four elevators and another two stood to either side of the headquarters doors. He posted two on the top level of the Clam Shell, two at the ramp leading to the Crystal Palace, and the final three on the platform surrounding the commander’s office.

  Once he’d given his men their assignments, he pointed at Steeple. “It’s show time.”

  #

  05280 hours

  The doctors had told him it would be best if he stayed in bed a few more days, but when push came to shove, Colonel Friedenthall signed off on Schiller’s return to duty in the Crystal Palace, provided he not engage in any more gunplay for a while. Schiller also agreed to take a sling, although he never agreed to actually wear it, and it remained on his nightstand, right where he’d left it.

  It being his first day back, he wanted to get to work early and see what needed doing. His shoulder ached and he moved his right arm in slow, careful motions, but it was his thigh that bothered him most. It was stiff and hurt like hell, and the doctors said it would take weeks to truly heal and even that depended on him doing the exercises they gave him to keep it limber.

  Getting shot hurt.

  Down in the Clam Shell, the night shift monitored various systems in puddles of light from their personal lamps. Without the hum of the day, everything seemed preternaturally quiet.

  Corporal Diaz had the day off after covering for him all the days since the fight for the Crystal Palace, and had left a detailed list of everything Schiller needed to know. He’d been told that Colonel Saw got to work earlier than General Angriff did, usually being in the office by seven, and that he drank his coffee black and wanted a cup as soon as he arrived.

  The platform surrounding the Crystal Palace was made of mesh metal to save weight, the same material as the ramp connecting it to the ground floor. Only the actual commander’s office had a solid floor. Schiller was on the far side of the platform, checking the coffee station to make sure it was ordered the way he liked it, when he felt the characteristic vibration of people coming up the ramp. Had Colonel Saw shown up early?

  Keeping his right leg stiff, he limped around the Crystal Palace to where the ramp met the platform, and froze. A young soldier in uniform aimed an M-16 at him as people came up the ramp behind him, but Schiller couldn’t tear his gaze away from the muzzle of the gun. He held his hands palm out. “I’m unarmed,” he said, wishing his hands weren’t trembling. Part of that was the pain in his shoulder.

  “Who have we here?” said an officer behind the man.

  “Colonel Claringdon?” Schiller said.

  Hands behind his back, Claringdon stepped closer to Schiller, inspecting him like a slave trader at an auction. His voice was nearly a hiss. “You’re going to be very sorry for opposing me.”

  But before he could continue, a loud, authoritative voice cut in, enunciating each word like it came straight from God. “There will be none of that!”

  Schiller tilted to his right to see around Claringdon and tried to keep a straight face when he saw General Steeple at the top of the ramp. Although he wasn’t a large man, Steeple’s face had purpled with rage and Schiller felt something strange, a feeling that, if he were forced to describe it, could only be compared to power. It didn’t feel electric, exactly; it felt… tangible.

  Claringdon visibly cringed.

  “There is no time for that sort of thing, Colonel, no time at all. Whatever happened in the past is now forgotten and forgiven. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Claringdon’s lips pressed tight against his teeth.

  “I mean it, Colonel. I will not condone or forgive personal vendettas. Period. As for you, Sergeant…” Steeple paused and moved closer to inspect Schiller’s chevrons. Then he
nodded at Schiller once. “Sergeant Major, I’d like to speak with you in my office.”

  “Now, General?” Schiller said.

  “Yes, now.”

  Schiller didn’t know who the soldiers were or why their uniforms didn’t have any insignia, or how Claringdon had gotten out of the guardhouse, or for that matter what Steeple was doing strolling into headquarters in full regalia. He only knew that he had to keep calm. Find out what he wants, John, he said to himself. Whatever it is, go along for now.

  #

  Steeple paused on the office threshold and thought, How often have I dreamed of this moment? He stepped through, took two steps, stopped, sniffed, and then snarled. “Damn that man!”

  Claringdon stepped up behind him. “The cigar smoke?”

  “Yes, the damned cigar smoke! It smells like a bar in here.”

  “Not any bar I’ve ever been in.”

  Steeple turned to see Adder push past Claringdon into the office.

  “Maybe a pussy-ass officer’s bar, but a really good bar stinks of beer and piss and sweaty sex, and usually blood. That’s when you know you’re gonna have a good time.”

  Steeple eyed him and crossed his arms. After a moment, he walked behind the desk and sat down. The chair would have to be adjusted, but that could wait. Folding his hands on the desk, he looked up at Adder. “Don’t ever contradict me again.”

  There was something about the way he said it that made even Adder pause. “I don’t work for you,” he finally said.

  “Not yet. Would you like to?”

  Adder laughed and sat down, although he hadn’t been invited to. “I guess that depends on the job.”

  “I want you to be my S-5.”

  “What is that?”

  Steeple tried to remember everything he knew about Adder. They’d never met before, but he’d nearly memorized the personnel files of every member of Task Force Zombie. Clearly, though, he needed this man on his side for the time being, since he commanded the only troops who might be willing to fight on Steeple’s orders. “Head of Security.”

  “Do you mean like your bodyguard? Or, like, security chief for this whole underground shithole?”

  “The whole thing. And everywhere outside of Overtime, too.”

  “Do I have to rejoin the Army?”

  “Only as a technicality, but of course you’ll need a rank commiserate with your duties. Colonel should about do it.”

  “You’re gonna make me a colonel?”

  “If you accept the position…” Steeple spread his hands. “Why not?”

  “Me, a colonel.” With hands clasped on top of his head, Adder craned his neck while laughing. He pointed at Claringdon. “Do I get to order him around?”

  “In matters of security… yes. When it comes to protecting Operation Overtime, you’re top of the food chain, reporting directly to me.”

  “Fuckin’ A. Where do I sign?”

  #

  Schiller didn’t have to wait long until the big guy named Adder motioned him into the office. Colonel Claringdon stared at him with slit eyes.

  But General Steeple wore a noncommittal smile and leaned forward with hands clasped on the desk. Then Steeple’s eyes flicked behind Schiller, where he could almost feel Claringdon’s glare burning into his back. “Colonel, please give us a moment.”

  Schiller heard the scuffing as Claringdon got up. “General—”

  Eyes fixed on Steeple, Schiller saw him hold up one hand in a stop gesture. Then the office door closed, leaving the big man named Adder as the only other occupant of the room.

  “Sergeant Major of the Army… congratulations, Schiller, I’m sure you earned it.”

  Steeple waited, but Schiller remained silent. As an officer under arrest, Steeple did not hold any authority over him, although that distinction seemed to have been rendered moot. Steeple waited him out and after a few seconds Schiller decided that pissing him off this early wasn’t worth it. “Thank you, General.”

  “I am not sure that you are aware of it, but I personally had to sign off on your inclusion in this unit because of the false burial it necessitated at Arlington. Despite your case not including the need for a burial plot, the one for your brother required calling in a few favors. For you the paperwork was daunting, even for inurnment in the Columbarium. I authorized this because of your indicated skills at organization and teamwork. In short, you were worth it.”

  Schiller simply stared without speaking. What was it General Tompkins liked to say? You can butter my butt, but don’t call me a biscuit.

  “I’m telling you this so you know how much I value your talents. You ran General Angriff’s headquarters for him, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you like him personally.” It wasn’t a question.

  “He’s my commanding officer. Whether I like him or not isn’t important.”

  “So you could serve a new commanding officer just as well?”

  Schiller recognized the trap but could see no way out. “I would serve any legally appointed C.O. just as well.”

  “Legally appointed… I am not going to argue legalities with you, Sergeant, as I suspect it would be pointless. As of this morning, I have taken command of Operation Overtime. I intend for General Angriff to fill the role he was originally selected for, namely that of commander of combat forces and my executive officer. What I need to know from you is, can you serve the same role for me as you did for him?”

  And there it was, the stark choice he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to make. Everything had happened too quickly for him to have time to think. Serving Steeple felt like a betrayal of General Angriff… hell, it was a betrayal of General Angriff. And yet by remaining at the center of power, he would be in a good place to help in whatever might be coming.

  “I can, General Steeple. I will.” Even as he spoke the words, though, they tasted bitter, like the coppery flavor of blood.

  “Be certain, Schiller. There is no going back from this. If you say no there will be no repercussions, but if you say yes now you cannot change your mind later. Regardless of what happens, or any orders I give with which you might disagree, it will be your sworn duty to carry them out to the best of your ability. Do you still say yes?”

  “Yes… sir. What about Colonel Claringdon?”

  Steeple’s face changed into yet another smile, this one that of a generous benefactor. “Leave Colonel Claringdon to me. Now, find out where General Angriff is at this exact moment, please.”

  “I can already tell you that, General. He’s with First Mechanized Infantry Regiment on the way to Sierra Depot with a relief column.”

  “And who is the regimental commander?”

  “Colonel Young, sir, Robert W.”

  “Young, of course. Please get him on the phone for me.”

  #

  Operation Comeback

  0605 hours

  Astrid Naidoo found a bleary-eyed General Schiller already at his desk. Her two previous bosses, Lt. Colonel Ashley Wisnewski-Smith and Colonel Charlie Kinokawa, had arrived at work no earlier than 0800 hours and sometimes later. Schiller, on the other hand, got there just after 0500. He never said she had to be there that early, too, Naidoo just assumed it, but today she’d slept right through the wakeup alarm.

  “I’m sorry to be late, General. It won’t happen again.”

  Schiller waved at her to indicate it didn’t matter. He looked much the worse for wear. Besides the color of his eyes, his face had gone slack and his clothes were rumpled. She wondered if he’d even slept the night before.

  “General, would you like some coffee?” she said.

  “I found it,” he said in a cracked voice. “I found what happened to the missing Stingers.”

  “That’s wonderful, sir!”

  “Benghazi. You remember Benghazi?”

  “Do you mean the attack on our embassy there, back in 2011?”

  “2012, September 11, 2012. Do you remember that?”

  “I remember the attac
k, not the details. What do the Stingers have to do with that?”

  “It’s why we didn’t send in air support. The terrorists had those Stingers and somebody in our government knew about it.”

  #

  Chapter 43

  Politicians are not born; they are excreted.

  Marcus Tullius Cicero

  Overtime Prime

  0639 hours, April 28

  Colonel Khin Saw got off the elevator and started walking toward the Clam Shell while looking down. Only when a man in a uniform with no insignia pointed a rifle at him did he stop and see the sentries in the headquarters.

  “Either you move that,” he said, pointing to the gun, “or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

  The man ignored him. “Who are you?” he said.

  “Who am I? I’m your commanding officer.”

  A second guard in similar attire strolled over from the other side of the entrance, laughing. “Not any more.”

  Finally a third man came forward and ordered the other two back into their positions. “Come with me,” he said.

  “What in the flying hell is going on around here?” The veins on his neck stretched like ropes under purpling skin.

  “Follow me and you’ll find out.”

  Seething, Colonel Saw stalked after him. At the entrance to the Crystal Palace, his office, however temporarily, the man stopped him, ducked inside, and then stepped aside. Only then was Saw allowed to pass through the door.

  He stepped into the office like the hero in a comic-book movie stepping through a doorway into another dimension. Buzz-cut hair did nothing to soften the angles of his square head, or the hardness of his slit eyes. Saw was a combat commander and looked every inch of it, despite his current assignment as the S-1.

  Steeple waved him in, rose, and met him halfway across the room. As they shook hands, Steeple put his left hand over Saw’s right. Saw’s wide body and massive shoulders strained his uniform coat as he stared into Steeple’s eyes. He did not stand at attention, as he would when formally and officially reporting to a superior officer. Steeple understood what it meant. As always, his irritation hid behind a friendly smile.