Standing in the Storm (The Last Brigade Book 2)

by William Alan Webb

“Calmly?”

  “I’m calm.”

  “Daddy, I want you to rescind that order to paint over Tank Girl.”

  “I’d better not find out that he put you up to this,” he said, growling his anger and forgetting the decision made a few seconds before.

  But his daughter had long ago learned how to get what she wanted from him. She reacted as she had during their frequent fights in her adolescence, with a calm voice.

  “I just told you I was standing there and heard it. Joe asked me not to call, too, and don’t you start saying that he should have tried harder. Since when do Angriffs listen to other people? How many times did Mom try to talk you out of stuff? Remember that fishing cabin in Wyoming? She begged you not to invest in that, but you did it anyway. How did that work out? When did she ever change your mind by arguing? Did it ever work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What, once? Maybe twice? Should she have tried harder, then? If this was anybody else’s helicopter, you wouldn’t give a damn, and you know it. But it’s your little girl and you don’t want everybody seeing me as some sort of cartoon—”

  “Naked cartoon,” he said.

  “Well, they’re not, Dad. That’s not what’s going on. My husband has me on the side of his aircraft because he loves me. It’s as simple as that. Would you have told the pilot of the Memphis Belle to take his girlfriend off the nose of his B-17?”

  He wanted to say, Yes, if she was holding a giant dildo, I would have. But he could not bring himself to say dildo while speaking to his daughter, so he said nothing.

  “It’s also good for morale, which you already know. So I want you to rescind the order.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you’re going to squander a whole lot of good will for nothing. Dad, don’t you realize how many of these people joined because of you? They trust you, they believe in you, and you’re really going to tell them that something as harmless as naming their machines is off limits? What about all of the other pilots? Are you going to let them keep their names? Are you going to issue regs on it, about what is okay and what’s not? Are you going to make me change the name of my Abrams?”

  “What’s your tank called?”

  “Joe’s Junk.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. It’s named Joe’s Junk. It means exactly what you think it means, and it has a caricature of my husband with a big bulge in a pair of tight pants.” She said that last with emphasis, knowing how embarrassed he would be, hearing her speak that way.

  “That’s on your tank?”

  “Yeah. Are you going to make me paint over that, too?”

  “I should.”

  “Then you’re going to have to make the whole battalion do it. We’ve got Rita’s Blowjob Factory, Vagina Warrior, High Explosive Money Shot, and about fifty more like that. If you make them all comply, it’s going to hurt morale for absolutely no military purpose. Do you really want to do that, Dad? Does that even make sense?”

  “You’re telling me that every vehicle in my command has an obscene nickname?”

  Morgan hesitated for a slight second, which told him much. “Not all, no. One of the Marine LAVs has a commander named Laura. I met her in the mess hall. Her LAV is named Shasta Vibes. I have no idea why. But that’s an exception.”

  Angriff’s cigar ash was about four inches long, so he laid it in the ashtray before it spilled on his uniform. Why could he not finish just one cigar in peace?

  “So what do you want me to do? Ignore that’s you on that Comanche? It really is obscene, you know.”

  “Of course it’s obscene. That’s the whole point. But stop a minute and listen to yourself, Dad. I’m an Army brat. I heard worse than this every day of my childhood. You’re talking about people who may be going into combat on a moment’s notice, people you may have to order to their deaths. Are you really worried about what’s painted on their machines? Come on, I know you better than that. And look at it this way — if we’re toasting burps again, they hate seeing naked women.”

  Not only did he know he had lost the argument, he also knew his daughter was right. That irked him the most. Throughout her life, she usually had been when they’d argued, even if he could never admit it to her. She was wrong about her last point, though. The radical Islamists he knew loved abusing nude women, so long as they were infidels.

  “Tell your husband to keep his damned nose art.”

  “Don’t be mad at me, Daddy.”

  “Don’t Daddy me,” he said, sounding gruff, but since she could not see him, he let himself smile, just a little.

  As she flipped the headset to Rossi, Morgan Randall’s expression was triumphant.

  “That’s how you handle Nick the A,” she said. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.” She pointed at the image on the helicopter. “Now, do what I told you. Make that sword bigger and round off my ass.”

  Joe Randall grinned, picked up the airbrush from the work table, and handed it to Carlos. “You heard the lieutenant.”

  Chapter 8

  Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.

  Sun Tzu

  1702 hours, June 30

  Behind his office in the Crystal Palace was the room Angriff had dubbed the Crystal Closet. Calling it a conference room was misleading. Sitting elbow to elbow, there was room for the four officers present and perhaps two or three more, but that was it.

  “General Angriff,” Fleming said, gesturing to the lean officer standing at attention, “you remember my senior adjutant, Major Olivia Descalso.”

  Angriff returned the salute. “Pleasure to see you again, Major. I’m sure you know Colonel Walling…” He paused, thought for a moment, then turned to Walling. “This is embarrassing, Colonel. You have been invaluable to me since wake-up and I never asked your first name.”

  “It’s all right, General. You’ve had plenty of more important things on your mind. It’s Benjamin, sir, and my friends call me B.F.”

  “B.F., huh? Is the F for Franklin?”

  “It is, sir,” he said.

  “Well, it’s a damned fine name.” He turned back to Descalso. “So what’s the latest from the lurps, Major?”

  Descalso sipped some water. She had never briefed a five-star general before and had only heard stories about the wrath of Nick the A, but she didn’t frighten easily, either. “I can give you the latest, General Angriff, but there’re still some gaps in what we know—”

  Fleming interrupted her. “Radio and reporting procedures will be changed after today, General. We’ve discovered some flaws.”

  Angriff patted the air in a consoling gesture. “It’s the first op, people. Glitches are normal. Norm, I know you and your staff will fix whatever needs fixing. Go on, Major; just give me what we do have.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, wetting her lips again. She shuffled the papers on the table and found what she was looking for. “I’ll start with the OPs. All are up and running, the closest being out twelve klicks and the furthest eighteen. None of them are hardwired yet, but I understand this will be done soon.”

  “That’s correct,” Walling said. “The S-4 found the wire straightaway. Nobody knows how he found it; he just did.”

  “That’s Colonel Schiller,” Angriff said. “He seems to be damned good at his job. Supply is a different animal and the great ones don’t think like everybody else. So we’ve got wire, great, the OPs are out. What else?”

  “Task Group Anvil took course three-two-zero out to one hundred klicks. No living humans encountered; evidence of post-Collapse settlements, ruins, lots more wildlife than expected, and wreckage of a foreign vehicle—”

  “What do you mean, foreign vehicle?” Angriff said. “Like a Toyota?”

  “My fault, sir; I wasn’t specific. Anvil reported sighting wreckage of a possible Chinese AFV…”

  Stunned silence fell around the table.

  “…damaged. They’
re bringing back video. I’m not sure of the nature of this AFV. I have no more details at this time.”

  Angriff took a deep breath. “If we have Chinese military involvement, then we need to know A-sap. That escalates potential engagements to a new level. Walling, get this to Colonel Kordibowski in Intellgence; I need S-2 on this right away. Top priority. Tell him I want a report before 2200 hours, even if it’s just best guess. Please continue, Major.”

  “Piledriver headed for the scene of last week’s engagement,” Descalso said. “Roughly zero-five-zero degrees. The Junkyard, as they call it. Fresh tracks from small motorized vehicles were observed and fresh footprints; no report on number of individuals. There may have been survivors of the air strike. Piledriver’s video will need interpretation before we can say with certainty.”

  “These tracks,” Angriff said. “Any idea what kind of vehicles we’re talking about?”

  “No, sir. Piledriver just said vehicles.”

  “Norm, we need to improve radio report content.”

  “Already got it, General. First thing on the list.”

  Angriff nodded for Descalso to continue.

  “Hammer took course one-six-five to one hundred ten klicks. Found three old settlements, all destroyed by fire, no living humans. They did see a herd of wild horses and some antelope.”

  “More horses. Just what we need,” Fleming said.

  “Speaking of horses, Hammer had one anomaly. Let me find it… here it is. ‘Multiple hoofprints, with apparent footprints intermingled.’ It sounds like dismounted riders, but the video doesn’t make it clear. There’s one more piece to that…”

  “Dismounted riders would make sense,” Angriff said, cutting her off. “Even in this desert, you can find enough forage for a small group of horses to graze on. Survivors using horses is no surprise. Okay, we’ll leave that for S-2. Any more from Hammer?”

  Descalso moved on, forgetting she had not finished with Hammer. “No, sir. That brings us to the last task force, Kicker. As you know, Kicker encountered a family of nine people in four wagons made from stripped-out pickup trucks and hauled by horses. There were also a few farm animals tied to the wagons. These people were moving northwest when Kicker observed two Humvees and a Bradley intercept them.

  “Instead of making contact, the officer commanding Kicker watched events from high ground, where he observed a man in the uniform of a sergeant in the U.S. Army shoot an unarmed woman while threatening some children she was protecting. Kicker’s commanding officer, a Lieutenant Sully, interceded by taking one Humvee to the scene, accompanied only by a driver. Upon his attempt to assert superior rank, the sergeant made it clear that he and his command were no longer in the U.S. Army and threatened to shoot Lieutenant Sully.”

  “Deserters?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Fleming said.

  “Fearing for his own safety,” Descalso said, “the lieutenant gave a code word via walkie-talkie and his sniper squad took out five of the six hostiles. The sergeant then surrendered. Upon investigating further, Sully discovered the shooting victim was an elderly female who needed immediate medevac, and we dispatched a full Dustoff team. Upon arrival, she was taken to surgery; there’s no update on her condition yet. Kicker is returning with the family and all their possessions, including wagons and animals.”

  “They’ll never make it before nightfall,” Angriff said.

  “ETA is 2300 hours, sir.”

  Angriff started to intervene, to order them to bring just the family and leave the livestock and wagons, but stopped himself. Norm Fleming was operations, not him, and he did not want to overrule his number two on something trivial.

  “They’re bringing this sergeant with them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angriff leaned over and pushed the left-hand button on the small intercom. “Schiller?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Task Force Kicker is due to arrive back at base at 2300 hours. I want to be there.”

  “Got it, General. Wake you if you’re asleep?”

  “Wake me if I’m dead. I want to be waiting for them.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll make it happen.”

  Angriff leaned back and bumped the wall of the small room. “Anybody gone Elvis?”

  “No sir. All hands accounted for.”

  “Then we’re done here. Walling, talk to JAG and find out if this sergeant Kicker is bringing in is covered by the UCMJ. If he’s not, I may shoot the son of a bitch right then and there. If he is, I might do it anyway.”

  2309 hours

  Viewed from a distance of one kilometer, the mountain was a huge black shape in the night. A half moon in a clear sky highlighted rocky outcroppings in silver beneath a sea of stars. Task Force Kicker drove with blackout lights only, following tracks made when they’d left the base eighteen hours earlier. Even in the bright moonlight, it appeared their tracks ended at a sheer rock wall. But when the lead Humvee came within one hundred yards, thick steel doors slid open and the exhausted drivers drove their machines into the glare of electric lights.

  At least fifty people crowded around the portal and waved, Nick Angriff chief among them. The Humvee driver who had shouted at him that morning flashed a thumbs-up. As the convoy crept forward in the cramped tunnel, Angriff climbed on the running board and stuck a cigar in the man’s breast pocket.

  “Goddamn, General,” the startled driver said. “Where’d you get that?”

  Angriff winked and patted him on the shoulder. “The Easter Bunny. One thing, son. Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Damn works just as well.”

  The driver turned to the corporal sitting next to him. “The rest of these trench monkeys ain’t worth a shit, but Nick’s a jarhead at heart.”

  Angriff overheard the comment and smiled. Jumping off, he went back to greeting his returning Marines. As strange as it felt for an Army officer, that was how he thought of them, as his Marines.

  As the long string of vehicles churned back into the mountain, Angriff stood at the threshold and greeted every one of them. At the rear limped two battered, overloaded Humvees with chickens in cages tied all over them. A Bradley came last, with a string of exhausted and filthy horses and a mule trailing behind it, while lying down in the cargo bay was a skinny cow. Behind the cow were some goats. The veterinary staff stood waiting to take care of the animals.

  The tunnel leading from the outer doors was eighty feet wide and two hundred long. It emptied into an enormous parking and maintenance area, measuring three hundred yards long and four hundred feet wide, with a ceiling of more than fifty feet. Overhead lighting mounted on elaborate scaffolding provided a bright working environment. More tunnels led away from this assembly area, but Dog Company pulled to a cleared space close by on the right.

  Exhaust fumes hung thick until giant fans dispelled them. The stink of unwashed bodies was not so easy to get rid of. As the company dismounted, the rest of the battalion crowded around, handing over water and energy bars, backslapping, and getting a good look at the IPs. But word spreads fast in a base like Prime and most of them wanted a look at the prisoner.

  The tired Marines of Dog Company climbed out of their vehicles. Streaks of sweat trickled through the yellow dust covering their faces. They smiled as only Marines home from a successful operation could smile. The two dogs ran loose, barking, panting, and getting belly rubs.

  Angriff tried to shake every hand in the company, and as many in the battalion as possible. He mingled until he wound up next to Sully’s LAV-C2. This was a LAV-25 variant with no chain gun, but a high roof to accommodate antenna and electronics equipment. The lieutenant had his back to them, but when everybody around him snapped to attention, he glanced back and did likewise.

  “As you were,” Angriff said. “Lieutenant Sully? Great job today, son, great job. You did the Marine Corps proud. I know I’m proud of you.” He pumped Sully’s hand and couldn’t help noticing the picture painted on the side of his LAV, a squawking duck running from a n
aked woman. Below it was the AFV’s name in bright red letters outlined in white, Fuck A Duck. “How are your IPs holding up?”

  Sully nodded at the family standing a few yards away, gawking at their surroundings while several nurses asked them questions. The children hid behind their grandfather and parents, terrified.

  “I think they’re overwhelmed, General. Some water and sleep will help, and they need some decent food.”

  “Don’t we all? If you find any, let me know.”

  “Um, yes, sir,” Sully said.

  “But as much as we joke about them, we should be thankful we’re not starving. I’d like to speak with the IPs later, but S-2 can do a better job of gathering intelligence than I can. In the meantime, they’re in good hands. So, give me the short version of what happened out there—”

  For the next few minutes, Sully related the events of the day, from the episode with the renegades to waiting on medevac, and then the long trip home trailing livestock in their wake. When he finished, Angriff pointed at a dejected man staring at the floor, surrounded by scowling Marines.

  “That our deserter?”

  “Yes, General,” Sully said. “He says he’s not a deserter, for what that’s worth. His name is Busson, but everybody calls him Slick.”

  “Slick, huh? Who’s that?” He indicated a slump-shouldered old man coated with dust, who glared at Slick.

  “That’s Joshua. His wife is the one Busson shot. He wanted to kill the guy, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Good call.”

  “Thank you, sir. Our primary mission was gathering intel, and prisoners who talk are the gold star. I also promised Joshua we would punish Busson for shooting his wife.”

  “You can bet on that,” Angriff said. “Oh, by the way, you’re Captain Sully now. Company commanders need to at least be captains.”

  He started walking toward Busson, and Schiller ran in front to try and block him. “Is there anything you need, General?”