Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  “I hope DC knows what she’s talking about,” Heather said as she walked out the door.

  The testing started after dinner when they were sitting on the veranda enjoying a cool breeze and the soft fragrances of the garden. “You seem to be enjoying yourself lately,” Chiang said.

  The truth of his simple statement surprised Heather. “Yes, I am.”

  “Unfortunately, I must return to Burma. My home there does not offer the same amenities as Bangkok. I was hoping that you would accompany me.” Then he offered her the choice. “Or you may return to the States, if you wish.”

  “Oh, I would rather go with you,” she said without hesitating, passing the test. “Would it be possible for DC to come? She and I are good friends.”

  Chiang nodded, pleased with her answer. He had no intention of releasing any of his hostages but he did prefer Heather to be a willing captive. It made things so much easier. “Of course,” he agreed. “Perhaps I can do something else for you before we leave?”

  Heather considered his offer. As before, she considered what she could do that would draw her closer to him. “I still have nightmares about what happened on the boat. I wish they would end. If that old fisherman—”

  Chiang finished the thought for her, “—would receive the justice he deserves?”

  “Yes,” Heather answered. “Exactly.”

  “That is a simple matter,” Chiang assured her. “Is there anything else?”

  “I want my father to know about it.”

  Chiang nodded and sipped his cognac. She was his.

  The anger that had been brewing inside Nikki Anderson was nearing the boiling point, and with each visible step Heather made in improving her status with Chiang, the more her anger steamed. It spewed into the open when she saw Heather get out of the white Rolls-Royce with Chiang and board the waiting Gulfstream III executive jet at Don Muang airport. “Look at that bitch.” She spat. “She’s fucking her way out of this mess.” The guard motioned for her and DC to get out of the Land Rover and follow them on board. Ricky and Troy followed, both handcuffed.

  “We got to get out of this place,” Troy grumbled.

  “You got any ideas?” Nikki asked.

  “Yeah. We start by beating the shit out of a few of these muthafucking goons.” A guard pushed him on board the Gulfstream.

  A saffron-robed Buddhist monk watched as the Gulfstream taxied out to the main runway. He checked the jet’s flight plan, saw that the destination was listed as Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, and went outside to hitch a ride.

  The Gulfstream landed at Chiang Mai fifty-five minutes after taking off and taxied to a parking spot on the ramp near the main terminal. Four white Range Rovers were waiting for the passengers and the transfer was quickly made. Inside the terminal, a stout German watched with seeming disinterest before he detached himself from a group of German tourists waiting for their baggage and hurried outside to his car.

  The Range Rovers were sandwiched between two trucks, forming a small convoy as they moved down the road. Troy Spencer and Nikki Anderson were in the last Range Rover with a guard and the driver. From his seat in the back, Troy kept looking out, trying to determine where they were headed. “Where we goin’?” he asked a guard. The man snapped a command at him in a language he didn’t understand.

  “I think that means ‘shut up,’” Nikki said from the middle seat. The driver shouted the same command and she fell silent. Not able to talk, she concentrated on the odometer and mentally calculated how many kilometers they had traveled since leaving the airport at Chiang Mai. They had covered seventy-five kilometers when they turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road. The cars in front of them kicked up a cloud of reddish dust and they had to roll up the windows, stifling in the heat. After an hour of sweating, Nikki said, “Please turn the air conditioner on.” To her surprise, the driver did as she asked and cool air flooded into the car. The driver gave her a toothy smile as the convoy ground to a halt. The driver climbed out of the Range Rover to check on the delay. “Now what?” Nikki grumbled. Four men spilled out of the rear truck and talked to their guard. Then the guard jumped out and disappeared into the bushes to relieve himself. The rest of the men clustered around the open hood of the lead truck.

  “Breakdown,” Nikki said. She turned around to face Troy. “The keys are still in the ignition.”

  Troy moved fast and dove into the middle seat and rolled into the floor next to her. “Did they see me?” he asked.

  “No,” Nikki answered. “They’re all moving over to the far side of the truck. I can’t see our guard.”

  “Now or never,” Troy grunted and he rolled into the front seat. He lay in the seat and fumbled at the key ring until he found the key to the handcuffs. Once free, he started the engine, still lying in the seat. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing,” Nikki told him. Troy moved behind the wheel, slipped the Rover into gear, and released the parking brake. He turned to the left, away from the side where their guard had disappeared into the bushes, careful not to race the engine. Nikki held her breath as Troy idled the Rover through the turn. Then they were around and on the shoulder, still moving, still undetected. Now they were past the truck and in the clear. “Go!” Nikki shouted, not able to stand it any longer. Troy gunned the engine and raced back down the road. It was a mistake. Their guard heard the engine rev and ran out of the bushes to investigate. He managed to get off a short burst from his submachine gun before the Rover disappeared around a bend. “He missed!” Nikki shouted triumphantly. “They’ll never catch us now.”

  “Yeah,” Troy agreed. “This is one sweet machine and can move. And they’ve still got to get turned around. No way they’ll catch us.”

  He was wrong. A bullet had ricocheted off the road into the gas tank and fuel was streaming out behind them. They had not reached the main highway before the engine died from fuel starvation. Troy swore and slammed the door open, running into the jungle that lined the road. Nikki was close behind him. Another mistake. They should have gone back up the road, toward their pursuers, and entered the jungle at a point away from the abandoned vehicle. Their pursuers would have searched for them in the opposite direction. As it was, they left a clearly marked trail behind them. Twenty-five minutes later, they heard one of the guards crash through the underbrush, only a few meters behind them. Troy pulled Nikki into a dense clump of undergrowth and waited. When the guard walked past them, he jumped on the man and tried to strangle him, finally able to give action to the fury that had been growing in him like a cancer. Nikki joined in the fight and wrenched his submachine gun out of his grasp. She jammed the muzzle into his stomach and the man collapsed in pain.

  Troy grabbed the weapon and was methodically beating the man’s head in when three other guards surrounded them. One shot him in the leg. One man threw Nikki to the ground and kicked her in the side while the others examined their dead comrade. They talked and reached an immediate agreement. One of the men tied a rope around Troy’s wrists, threw the line over a tree branch, and hoisted him up, his feet barely off the ground. Another guard unsheathed his machete and walked over to the American. Troy twisted and shouted from the end of the rope, his eyes wide with fear. He kicked at the guard who only sneered and swung the machete, almost cutting Troy’s foot off. Then he methodically worked his way up, hacking at Troy’s thighs before slamming one vicious cut into his stomach, making a dull thumping sound. He continued to hack.

  Nikki screamed until a guard pounded her into unconsciousness.

  The men had left, leaving the grisly remains of Troy Spencer hanging in the tree and dragging Nikki Anderson behind them. A man stepped out of the underbrush—the German from the airport terminal. His face was granite hard as he pulled a small camera from his shirt pocket and snapped three photos. Then he disappeared back into the underbrush.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  “Have you every been to Wally World?” the driver of the U.S. Army staff car asked. No answer.
He wheeled the car onto the side road. “This is Chicken Road,” the driver said, “and that big white stucco building with the red tile roof and chain-link fence is Delta’s compound.” Still no answer. “It was built in the eighties…” His voice trailed off since he had relayed all he knew about Delta Force, which was considerably more than most people knew.

  Kamigami sat in silence as they drew up in front of the compound. Four NCOs were drawn up waiting for his arrival: the command sergeant major he was replacing and the sergeant majors from each of Delta’s three squadrons. They were wearing dress greens with bloused trouser cuffs and green berets. All came to attention when he got out of the car and walked up the steps. “Welcome to Delta,” the retiring CSM said.

  “Who you trying to impress, Caz?” Kamigami asked. They were old friends. “I thought Delta was allergic to drill and ceremonies?” The men of Delta were an extremely focused group and their professionalism was so great that they paid little attention to the formal trappings of the military.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” the retiring sergeant, Caz, said. “I’d never ask them to march. They’d only embarrass themselves.”

  “You can take them out,” Kamigami deadpanned, “but you can’t dress them up.”

  “Absolutely right,” Caz replied. “Nothing’s changed. Come on, let’s take care of the paperwork so you can get down to business. The CO, Colonel Robert Trimler, is at headquarters USSOCOM. He should be back by the weekend. That’ll give you a chance to get acquainted with the troops.”

  After Kamigami had signed the paperwork that took him off Army rolls and put him on the Directed Assignment Roster, he asked for a training schedule and saw that a team from A Squadron was scheduled for a fifteen-mile cross-country march. “I don’t have a rucksack with me,” he told Caz, “but maybe someone will lend me one.” Caz told him that he would get the word to A Squadron.

  When Kamigami walked out to meet the team, he sensed the conspiratorial mood and sighed inwardly, resigning himself to what was coming. It was the good-natured get-the-CSM type of attitude he had experienced before. He looked around to see whose rucksack had been loaded down with rocks and would magically appear in front of him when he asked to borrow one for the march. He decided to play the game. “Can I borrow someone’s rucksack?” he asked. On cue, a rucksack was produced and he was puzzled for it looked normal and had no unusual bulges indicating it had been packed with rocks. Then he picked it up and estimated it weighed close to 150 pounds. They had raided the physical conditioning room and packed it with weights. They are resourceful buggers, he decided. The CSM easily shouldered the rucksack and moved out, the team from A Squadron following.

  The first five miles went at the usual pace and Kamigami moved among the men, asking about their backgrounds and what operations they had been on. About half had been on Special Operations in the Persian Gulf War and he detected a certain smug confidence among that group that worried him. Then he changed into a higher gear and picked up the pace. Two miles later, the first complaint was heard but the voice was quickly smothered. Now the men started to spread out and only the most determined kept pace behind Kamigami. He heard someone ask, “Did he get the right rucksack?” The answer was obscene.

  Kamigami again picked up the pace. “What the hell’s goin’ on,” one of the trailers moaned. “He’s an old man.” Again, the answer was unprintable.

  Green headbands, commonly called drive-on rags, started to appear and the march began in earnest. “Look at him,” a voice said, now full of awe, “he’s hydroplaning the earth.” The stragglers started to encourage each other, determined not to be left behind, and most of the men were able to follow their new CSM into the compound in more or less good order. Half of them sank to the ground, thankful the ordeal was over.

  “What asshole said he was an old man?” came from ankle level. “He smoked us.”

  “Normal rules don’t apply to CSMs,” a sergeant, still able to stand, said.

  Kamigami handed the rucksack to its owner, careful to keep his face impassive and not show the pain he felt. “Enjoyable,” he said. “We’ll do better tomorrow.” He left the men in stunned silence and headed for his office. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and sank into a chair. You are getting old, he thought. That hurt more than it should have. It is time to retire. But not until I fix what’s wrong.

  Then he allowed a smile, certain that he had found the perfect assignment to end his career, pulled the local phone book out of a drawer, and searched the yellow pages until he found the section he wanted: livestock dealers.

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  The President was silent as he slipped the three photos back into the folder. The director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, cast a furtive glance at Leo Cox, taking his cues from the President’s chief of staff. Cox gave a slight shake of his head, warning Burke not to talk. Pontowski stared at the painting of Theodore Roosevelt, his favorite President, hanging over the fireplace. It was so much different in your time, he thought. Or was it? Perhaps the moral choices were easier to see. He tried not to think about the grisly photos of Troy Spencer, mute testimony to his savage and brutal execution. He let the light and airy atmosphere of the Oval Office work its magic and calm his racing emotions. He focused on the seal of the United States in the center of the rich royal-blue carpet that covered the floor.

  “How reliable is the source?” Pontowski finally asked, tapping the folder, once again the master of his emotions. “Is this really Troy Spencer?”

  “We cannot get a positive ID from these photos,” Burke replied. “And we have no secondary sources for confirmation.”

  “Is the source good enough to act on?” Pontowski probed.

  Burke dropped his head and took a deep breath. Acting on one source of intelligence grated on every conservative instinct in his bones. “I can only tell you that this source has been absolutely reliable in the past,” he said, hedging his answer.

  “What other resources does the CIA have in place?” Cox asked. Burke only shook his head in answer.

  “Do you have the resources to mount a covert rescue operation?” Cox was like a pit bull worrying its dinner.

  “Yes, we do,” Burke answered, brightening. “But to employ them, we’d have to get approval from the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. They take their watchdog responsibilities over our covert operations very seriously. They’ll approve it—eventually—after they’ve covered their political behinds.”

  “How long to get approval?” Cox asked.

  “Two, maybe three weeks, to get their blessing,” Burke answered, glancing at Pontowski, trying to gauge his reaction.

  Pontowski touched the folder. “I want this report sanitized for dissemination to the key players. Just say that we have an unconfirmed report from a highly reliable source that Mr. Spencer was killed by his guards while attempting to escape and that we are trying to confirm through second sources. Bobby, I don’t want these photos to go beyond this office.” He shoved the folder with its grisly contents across his desk. “Get with your people and come up with a rescue plan to get them out. Start putting it together but keep it strictly in-house. Don’t go to the committee looking for approval yet.” Burke nodded and left, eager to get to work.

  After the door had closed, Pontowski studied TR’s portrait, wondering what he would have done. “I don’t think the CIA can do this,” he said. “I’m thinking of using Delta Force.”

  “It’s tailor-made for them,” Cox agreed. “But we have to solve the basic problem first.” Pontowski’s heavy eyebrows arched at this. “We don’t know,” Cox continued, “where the hostages are. Once we do, everyone’s going to want a piece of the action. You know the military, always looking for a way to justify their existence. Too many cooks, et cetera.”

  “And this from an old warhorse,” Pontowski said, a sardonic grin splitting his face, recalling Cox’s career in the Air Force.

  “Fact of life, sir.”

  “
This is one of those times I worry about our intelligence services,” Pontowski said. “Why can’t we match the Israelis or the standards set by Allied intelligence during World War Two?”

  1943

  The Rhine River, near Rastatt, Germany

  Chantal found a small rowboat behind a shed less than fifty feet from the Rhine River. She concealed Zack in the shed while she guided the old horse and carriage deep into the dense woods a half mile back from the river. She unhitched the horse and hobbled him so he couldn’t wander away. Then she ran back to where she had left Zack, relieved to find his fever going down, and dragged the rowboat down to the water. She deposited Zack into the bow and used a narrow six-foot-long plank to scull them out into the current. The early-morning mist provided a welcome cover and she let the current do most of the work. They bumped against French soil near the small town of Seltz, three miles downstream from where they had put in. There, Chantal simply made a phone call and established contact with the French Resistance. Two hours later, they were hidden in a safe house miles from the Rhine.

  “Mademoiselle,” the woman who lived in the house said, “I wish we could get him to a hospital—” she gave an expressive shrug—“but this is the Alsace and loyalties are not always what they seem. We are too close to Germany.” Chantal told her that she understood. “Also,” the woman continued, “we should move him before the Boche start a search.”