Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  Some switch in her brain clicked into place and she ran toward the green tank, waving her arms and shouting for nobody to shoot. The people in the tank could only be the Americans they’d heard rumors about and she didn’t want any of her people firing at them by mistake.

  When she stopped beside it, a hatch on the top opened and a man wearing some sort of rounded helmet appeared and looked down at her. “You need to get back under cover, ma’am. This isn’t over yet.”

  “Are you the Americans?”

  “Better! We’re the Marines.”

  #

  1751 hours

  Like the Texicans at the Alamo, Johnny Rainwater and the defenders of Shangri-La stood fast trying to defend the five-foot-high wall blocking outlet from the Valley of Death. The Sevens had rushed over the bodies of their own wounded to get at the infidels and reached the wall. Some climbed and made it over to grapple with the defenders on the other side, while most got a rifle butt or bullet in the face. Several held their rifles over the wall and shot down without looking, until the infidels learned to snatch the guns out of their hands.

  Both sides shot through the rifle ports in the wall. In one case, a young girl aimed at the knee of a Seven, but before she could fire, he dropped to a crouch and pointed his own gun at her. They fired simultaneously and both fell backward, dead.

  Sheer numbers had pushed the Sevens over the wall and the defense was near collapse when reinforcements arrived.

  The ten-foot-high walls on either side of the valley had not been attacked, so the defenders gathered there left a skeleton watch guard and ran to assist at the valley wall. With the new infusion of energy, the fight became a melee of rifle butts, pistols, knives, teeth, and fists. Cannonfire coming from the west went unheard over the tumult.

  One boy of sixteen tried to choke a Seven, but wasn’t strong enough. Thrown onto his back, he stared as the Seven swung his rifle around to fire, but a lifetime in the desert had given him reflexes a normal teenager wouldn’t have. He rolled to his left as the shot plowed into the dirt where his head had been, pulled a knife from his boot, and threw it from his knees. It dug deep into the man’s side and blood immediately stained his dirty robe. Screaming in pain, he climbed back over the wall.

  A tremendous blast from the direction of the highway echoed over the desert, followed by more explosions. Within a minute, shouts of Tarajue! Retreat! sent the Sevens flying back over the wall and down the valley. A few defenders sent shots after them, but most simply bent over and gasped for breath.

  Johnny Rainwater rose to hands and knees, then stood, wobbly, and felt blood running from a cut over his right eye. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, except that somehow they’d driven back the Sevens.

  #

  Chapter 79

  My prayer is that when I die, all Hell rejoices that I am out of the fight.

  C.S. Lewis

  Sulphur Creek, New Mexico

  1803 hours, April 30

  Shadows covered half the old parking lot of a single-story motel. The firefight to capture the place had been short and violent. Now, having a wide space gave the Mecca Regiment a chance to rest, regroup, and treat their wounded. Tracy Gollins hated the delay, but even she realized that her men had been fighting all day and needed the break. So she gave them fifteen minutes and then the attack would continue. Twilight came early under the forest canopy, after which further attacks would be too risky.

  She didn’t show the worry she felt. The explosion they’d heard earlier hadn’t been close, yet even at such a distance she knew it had been huge, which could have been either good or bad. Being a pessimist, she assumed it was bad. The closer small arms fire wasn’t such a mystery; it could only be Sati Bashara with the Rasūl and Ayyub Regiments.

  Less than a quarter mile ahead, Highway 126 joined the leg of Highway 4 running east-west from Los Alamos, and both turned south toward Shangri-La. The Y-shaped crossroad had the largest barrier yet of boulders and felled trees, which no doubt had infidels behind it in strength. Flanking it through the dense woods would require more men than she had left, thus the need to join with Bashara’s two regiments. Between them they would have at least 2,000 men, more than enough to smash their way through.

  But damn, did she hate sharing credit with that pompous little shit Bashara. It was a good thing they’d taken a prisoner during the fight for the motel. Torturing him would be a little bit of fun before she had to be nice to the Caliph’s asshole nephew.

  #

  1804 hours

  “How did that vile woman beat us to the crossroads, Haleem? How did she do it?”

  “I would not dishonor your uncle by answering that question, Sati.”

  “Dishonor him? Do you think she is a servant of Satan?”

  “I did not say that.”

  Sati Bashara rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you should,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It is not important. The day grows late. We will let the men rest ten more minutes and then we will capture this accursed place. It has cost too much blood already. Bring up the tank.”

  #

  1805 hours

  Johnny Rainwater wanted nothing more than to soak in the hot springs and then sleep. Everything in his body hurt, every muscle and joint and especially his head. Drying blood got into his eye and he’d wiped it away with his fingers, but that only replaced the blood with dirt. Sweat had turned the dust coating him into a paste. He only cleared his vision by pouring water from his canteen into the affected eye.

  Once the daze wore off, he staggered around trying to help the wounded. Everywhere, the people of Shangri-La knelt beside the bodies of their friends and loved ones, some dead, some dying, and some wounded, binding their wounds with whatever was at hand and getting them off the battlefield.

  “Go to the sanctuary,” he said, walking among them. “Women, stand to the wall in case the Sevens come back. Men, help the injured back to the sanctuary. Hurry!”

  He helped a middle-aged woman named Harriet to her feet. Her simple white shirt had a big red stain on one side. Looping one of her arms over his shoulder, he began to help her walk back to the main compound called the Sanctuary, but she shrugged him off and told him to help someone else.

  But as his head cleared, Rainwater remembered he was in charge of the entire defense, not just the wall. His anxious horse was still tethered, so he climbed into the saddle and rode to Highway 4. Most of the shooting had stopped and he needed to find out why.

  #

  1812 hours

  Sati Bashara didn’t like eating or drinking in sight of his men, in case he spilled something. He was their leader and refused to show weakness to them in any form. While awaiting the arrival of his fellow general, the despicable Tracy Gollins, he retreated up a heavily wooded hill with a canteen of water and some corn cakes and dried beef. The canteen was U.S. Army surplus and made of metal, so the water bordered on being hot and had a metallic taste. Fried in corn oil, the corn cakes left a greasy residue on his fingers, while chewing the leather-like beef made his jaw hurt. After he’d ripped off the third chunk of meat, he took a swig of water and chewed the mixture just enough so he could swallow.

  Bashara heard the Bradley before it rounded the curve 200 yards to the west. The pitch of the engine’s roar was higher than the supply trucks of his army, and much higher than that of the Abrams. General Muhdin had split the available tank ammunition evenly, so his Abrams had the same nine rounds as the one Muhdin had kept with his own command. But neither his Bradley nor Gollins’ had a full load of ammo now, and he assumed that Muhdin’s did.

  Without him realizing it, his lip curled when her Bradley came to a stop in front of his. She stepped out and approached Haleem, directly below where he ate. Her walk reminded him of a well-used whore, stiff and bow-legged, and he thought she looked more like a cow than a woman. Nor did she have any reason for being there; war was men’s work. A woman had no place on the battlefield.

>   But the Emir had made it crystal clear that this hideous female was the exception, the sole exception, to that law as laid down in the New Prophet’s supplement to the Koran. He didn’t know the Caliph’s feelings on the matter and knew that asking would have to be done very carefully. Bashara had worked hard to earn his uncle’s trust, and with no male heirs, the Emir recently had begun treating him like his successor. Now this bitch had showed up. It seemed unlikely that she would ever ascend to a religious rank such as Superior Imam or Emir, but she wasn’t supposed to be a general, either, and yet here she was. And he had to cooperate with her to achieve their mutual goal.

  Having finished eating, Bashara crossed his arms and waited for her to walk up to him, because he’d be damned if he’d go to her. Under lowered brows, he watched her speak with Haleem, until one of the Bradley’s crew called out and waved for Haleem to come over. From the look on the man’s face, Bashara thought, This does not look good.

  Moments later, Haleem looked up the ridge and waved. “Sati!” His voice barely carried up, but he heard it clearly. “We have new orders!”

  “Not a moment too soon,” he said, as all around him the shadows deepened under the trees. Once down the slope and standing beside Haleem, he crossed his arms again and said one word to her by way of greeting. “General.”

  “Hello, Sati,” she said, with the barest hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth. Women were not supposed to address men by their given name unless they were a relative, but among men of equal status it was common. It was her way of reminding him that a woman held rank equal to his.

  “My generals,” Haleem said before either of them could insult the other, “General Muhdin has new instructions. We are to hold in place and prepare for further attacks, but not to attack until specifically told to. It seems the forces under the command of General Muhdin were ambushed by something none of us expected… the Americans.”

  “How can that be?” Bashara said. “We are hundreds of miles from the last place we encountered them.”

  “I cannot say, Sati. The man operating the general’s radio said they lost both the tank and their Bradley.”

  “Was it the big man with his pistols? Did they say?”

  “No, only that Americans were now inside Shangri-La.”

  “We cannot let this stop us,” said Gollins. “We have rested and are ready to attack, Sati. You have an Abrams and between us we have three Bradleys and three regiments. The only thing left between us and the home of the infidels are some trees piled on the road. We can blast through them and win this fight before nightfall, but we must act now.”

  Something inside Bashara knew she was right, which triggered the opposite response. If they attacked and won, she would get half of the credit or more. Even failure was preferable to that, particularly since he would only be following orders. “I cannot disobey Muhdin.”

  “Sati, listen to me. How do we know that more Americans are not on the way? If we attack now, before they have organized, we can still achieve victory. But now is the time, not later and not tomorrow. Now.”

  He wanted to say yes. He knew he should yes, that Muhdin was wrong. But capturing this Shangri-La place was only one stepping stone to his ultimate objective and both Gollins and Muhdin could be obstacles to achieving that. “No,” he said. “I will obey orders.”

  “Then give me the Abrams. Or have it fire two or three times to blow up those logs and leave the rest to me. You know it’s the smart move; you know it.”

  Yes, he thought. I do. It’s a brilliant move… for you. “No!”

  She motioned Bashara a few feet away, leaned in close, and lowered her voice so that only Bashara could hear. “I can read your mind, you little shit, but I never thought your hatred of me would let you endanger what’s good for the Caliphate. You know as well as I do that the longer we wait to restart the attack, the more blood we shed.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand these things, but an honorable man obeys the orders of his superiors.”

  “Honorable man, my ass.” She wheeled and stalked back to her own command Bradley. Bashara watched her, and thought the ass she spoke of looked like two bags of wet sand swaying back and forth.

  #

  Chapter 80

  In the Marine Corps, your buddy is not only your classmate or fellow officer, but he is also the Marine under your command. If you don’t prepare yourself to properly train him, lead him, and support him on the battlefield, then you’re going to let him down. That is unforgivable in the Marine Corps.

  Chesty Puller

  Shangri-La

  1828 hours, April 30

  Rainwater found Abby Deak standing beside a large green tank-like vehicle, speaking with a man in a camo uniform who held something that looked like the old football helmets they used when working in tunnels. To his left, the bur oak lay in two pieces, with the ends of each half shattered by something powerful. Bodies and puddles of blood lay scattered in the dirt and on the highway. Three distinct columns of black smoke rose from beyond the tree, and a quick glance showed dozens more bodies interspersed with burning armored vehicles.

  “Not that I’m not grateful,” he said as he approached Deak and the man she stood beside, “but who are you?”

  Dirty streaks lined the man’s face. He shifted the helmet to his left hand and stuck out his right. “Lieutenant Onni Hakala, First Platoon, Dog Company, First Marine Recon Battalion.”

  “Marine?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Hakala is part of the Americans we heard about,” Deak said. “He saved us, Johnny. Without him, they would have rolled over us.”

  “It wasn’t just me,” Hakala said. He nodded with his head in the direction of the tree. “Those are my friends out there.”

  “I am very sorry for the loss of your friends, but I am very glad that you are here. My name is Johnny Rainwater. May I ask you why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you’re here? Why risk your life for us?”

  “I didn’t exactly do it for you, Mr. Rainwater.” The lieutenant pointed toward the flag half a mile in the distance. “I’ve spent my whole life pledging allegiance to that flag, sir, and the country it stands for. It’s why I became a Marine. I’ll defend it to the death, and anyone who stands in defense of it is my brother or sister in arms.”

  “What sort of man still thinks that way?”

  Hakala smiled. “We do.”

  #

  Sara Snowtiger’s Cave

  1832 hours

  “Skip, wake up.”

  Dennis Tompkins squinted in the semi-darkness of the cave. It took a second for him to remember where he was, or that his arm lay around the shoulders of the slim woman sleeping at his side.

  Framed against the twilight outside the cave mouth, John Thibodeaux crouched on his right side holding two paper packets. “Creamed wheat or oatmeal with raisins?”

  Tompkins cocked his head but didn’t need to ask the question. Thibodeaux had known him too long for that.

  “We’re splittin’ them MRE things up so’s they last longer. No tellin’ how long we’ll be here.”

  “Did somebody say oatmeal?” said Sara Snowtiger in a sleepy voice. “With raisins?”

  Thibodeaux glanced at her and back to Tompkins. He knew that Tompkins hated creamed wheat and loved oatmeal.

  “You like oatmeal?” Tompkins said.

  “Oh, my… I did when I was a girl, but I have not had it in probably sixty years.”

  “We can fix that right quick. I’ll take the creamed wheat, John. Please bring Sara the oatmeal.”

  “You sure, Skip?”

  “Yes, Dennis, please. I’m fine eating anything. If you prefer the oatmeal, then please eat it.”

  “Nah, I love creamed wheat. This is perfect.”

  Thibodeaux wasn’t good at hiding what he really felt, but he tried. Rising to go add hot water to the mixes, he stopped when Tompkins asked another question.

  “Our f
riends still outside?”

  “Yeah, they’s still there. Had a few join ’em.”

  “How many?”

  “Not real sure… best guess is twenty or thirty. I figger there’s sixty out there all told, maybe a few more.”

  “I’ll be out for my watch in a minute.”

  “We’s okay, Skip. You stay here wit’ the lady an’ I’s bring your dinner, me.”

  When he’d gone, Sara Snowtiger looked up at him while still clutching his arm. “It is not good, is it, Dennis?”

  He patted her hand. “We’ll be fine. You wait and see.”

  When she smiled, Tompkins thought she looked thirty years younger. “You are a terrible liar.”

  #

  Lying on one side of the ledge, well away from the others, Piccaldi lowered the binoculars and glanced west, where a semi-circle of the sun still shone above the mountains. “If you wanna grab some chow, I’ll stay here ’til you’re done.”

  “I’ll wait until you can join me,” replied Lara Snowtiger.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” She did something then that she rarely did; she smiled.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Why?”

  The smile faded and she shook her head. “You know something, Zo? You’re a real dumbass.”

  #

  Chapter 81

  On whom does the cheetah prey? The old, the sick, the wounded, the weak, the very young, but never the strong. Lesson: If you would not be prey, you had better be strong.

  G. Gordon Liddy

  EP1

  1833 hours, April 30

  Leaning against the outer wall near the bunker’s entrance, arms folded, Joe Randall pretended to watch the single flitter moving toward him at a steady pace, but in reality he was looking past the one-man aircraft toward the south, where the dark clouds of a thunderstorm were lit by streaks of lightning. They’d planned on heading that direction and Randall had been fretting about the storm, but it looked like it might have already passed to the east.